From The Ashes
by StrayxMonarch
Summary: When her Orion helicopter goes down in flames in the deserts of Afghanistan, Remi Briggs is not the sole survivor. To make it back to civilization alive, she has to join forces with the one teammate she usually actively avoids; the squadron's resident boy scout, Corporal Kurt Weller. (AU; Reller) . Warnings: explicit language, graphic descriptions of injuries, mention of suicide
1. Chapter 1

_Well, can't say I ever thought I'd be back and posting Blindspot fics again..._ _but several months and ~45,000 words after having a sudden idea... here we are._

_As we all know, this hiatus is gonna drag out foreverrrr, so I hope this fic will give y'all something to do in the meantime! It should be about 13 chapters (each one split into two halves/POVs), with the aim to update weekly on Wednesdays_— _and in between I'm also planning to publish all my old works that were only ever posted on tumblr, because why not. (That one's for you, Chibinoyume!)_

_Anyhow, I'm really genuinely stoked to share this story with you guys, so I hope like hell that you all love it as much as I do. _

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It was the smoke that saved her, even as it tried to kill her.

Subtle at first, it grew stronger and stronger, steadily weaving itself down into her lungs until her breath was no longer air but ash, a dark cloud that built in her chest and then exploded outwards, her body choking and retching her brain into consciousness.

With a rough, shuddering gasp, Remi twisted half onto her side, her helmet strap like a noose around her neck. Fumbling with the catch, she ripped it free and tossed it away from her, her eyes and nose streaming, her throat turning to damp sandpaper as she hacked up glob after glob of soot-stained phlegm, ridding her body of the poison that had nearly succeeded where the helicopter had failed.

Rattling out a last, violent cough, she swiped at her eyes and then her mouth, her fatigues rough with sand and grit. The roar in her head had pitched and changed, growing louder and more insistent as it transferred from inside her skull to the world around her, and at last she shakily raised her head, squinting towards its source with stinging, watery eyes.

It sat barely fifteen yards away, the mangled, fiery ruin of the helicopter that had been carrying her entire squadron. It was all but obliterated, barely distinguishable from a pile of burning scrap metal, and it didn't take more than a single glance at the destruction to know that she wouldn't be finding other survivors. Even the smoke itself told her the same; after all, it wasn't just fuel and metal she could smell in its fumes.

No, she was on her own.

Pushing back the sudden flare of a different kind of pain— one she had no time for right now— Remi braced her trembling arms, then drew a deep, ragged breath.

Ignoring the sting of sand on her scraped palms and the sharp protest of her undoubtedly broken ribs, she forcibly pushed herself almost into a sitting position, her teeth immediately sinking into her lip as she stifled the scream that wanted to rip from her throat. Her leg was on fire— not like the helicopter behind her, but abruptly aflame with agony as her brain only just now registered the foot-long shard of metal that had impaled itself through the inner side of her thigh, effectively pinning her to the ground beneath her.

Panting hard, she let her upper body slump back against the sand, her mind already racing, calculating and assessing. She'd have to pull it out. There was no choice. Every second she lay here was a second closer to death, regardless of whether it was the smoke or the insulated reserve tanks blowing or even an enemy combatant drawn by the blaze. It was all only a matter of time, and everything in her gut told her she was nearly out of it.

So... fuck it.

Gritting her teeth, she reached out blindly for her rifle, her fingers scrabbling in the sand before closing around the strap. She may be pretty much fucked, but she'd still been twice lucky; as a door-gunner, she was required to have her weapon strap attached to her belt at all times while in the air, and somehow, the connector had survived the fall with her.

Her position saved her life, and now— as long as she didn't bleed out sometime in the next minute— it had given her the means to stay that way.

Pulling the rifle close, she turned her head and put the strap between her teeth, her eyes staring out into the smoke and wreckage as she curled both hands around the jagged metal.

_One_.

She took a deep, smoke-tainted breath through her clenched teeth, then let it out.

_Two_.

Another deep, steadying breath, then—

Movement.

A figure was stumbling through the haze, the large, dark shape of a man, his hoarse coughs faint over the roar of the inferno. Instantly releasing the metal, she yanked the rifle strap from her mouth, her hands closing around the stock and pulling it against her. Twisting to prop herself on an elbow, she held her breath and lifted the barrel, the screaming of her nerve fibres relegated to a muted background keening as she took aim at the shape moving through the smoke.

How long had she been out? Not long, she was certain, but still easily long enough for an enemy with a vehicle to reach the crash site if they'd already been in range. Even with the danger of the blaze, the potential payload of weapons and supplies— and survivors to capture or kill— would undoubtedly be too great of a temptation for the local militias to pass up.

Which meant that right now, Shepherd's teaching was true: everyone was an enemy until proven otherwise.

Even with her disadvantage, Remi felt no fear; kill or be killed had been her life's default mode for as long as she could remember, and the fact that she was here right now showed that she had never been on the losing side. Lifting her sights to chest height, she squinted through the burning haze, unable to discern much more than a broad chest covered by tattered clothing stained red-black with blood. Tightening her finger on the trigger, she steadied her breathing, waiting the final few seconds for the figure to emerge.

_Almost_...

_Almost_...

_There_.

They recognized each other at the exact same time; she knew it, because her finger released the trigger at the exact same moment his voice pierced the air.

"Briggs!"

Suddenly shaky, Remi abruptly lowered the rifle, her head dropping and a ragged breath escaping her lips as he moved towards her through the debris. It was a purely reflexive response, she knew, nothing more than the natural relief of being faced with an ally rather than enemies when already vulnerable and in hostile territory.

It certainly wasn't relief that _he_ had survived, nor was it horror that she'd been half a heartbeat from killing him— after all, her squadron was nothing to her, aside from an inconvenience that she had to endure. They were not friends, because she did not have friends. And they were certainly not family, because there were only two people alive who would ever be that to her.

If she was glad to see him, it was simply because his presence doubled her chances of getting out of here alive. That was all.

"Briggs!" he called again, crossing the space between them with quick, limping strides. Now that he was closer, she could see two or more large gouges across his chest and upper arm, combining with a wound above his temple to turn him into something out of a child's nightmare, his every step leaving behind a trail of blood-spattered sand and rock.

She opened her mouth to reply, but found her throat had somehow gotten tighter, her eyes suddenly burning worse than before. Fucking smoke must be getting to her. Giving a harsh cough to clear it, she pushed herself a little further upright, determinedly ignoring the pain that flared through her thigh at the movement— she refused to look weak in front of _anyone_, let alone him.

Lifting her eyes to his face, she steeled herself, then spoke a name that she hadn't ever expected to say again.

"Weller."

#########

She was alive.

Thank fucking Christ, she was alive.

His battered legs protested as he increased his pace through the maze of wreckage, impatient to get to her, to touch her, to know that she was real and not just a hallucination from the head injury or all the toxic fumes he'd inhaled.

Since the moment he'd woken on the hard ground with a splitting headache, a torn up chest, and one leg of his fatigues on fire, he'd barely been able to breathe, fire and fear stealing all the oxygen from his lungs. The helicopter was all but gone, just a burning metal skeleton left behind, and for a moment he'd simply closed his eyes, knowing that his squad had gone with it. He didn't remember anything of the crash or the minutes preceding it, could only guess that his position as door-gunner had saved his life, throwing him free as the bird spiraled toward the ground.

That was the one thing that kept him going as he'd searched vainly through the debris; if his position by the door had saved his life, then maybe her position on the other side had saved hers.

It was clear the others hadn't been so lucky; here and there he'd found bits of bodies, too mangled and burned to even know which of his team they had come from. Some of the guys had been almost like brothers to him, others friends; some had been complete assholes, and yet had still never deserved this.

The only one he could be sure of was Hutton, his flame-retardant medkit still strapped across his torso where it lay in the sand. His legs, it seemed, had stayed in the helicopter.

It had seemed pointless, crazy even, to keep searching the wreckage— the reserve tanks hadn't yet blown, a fact that could change any second, and the smoke felt like it was steadily eating its way through his lungs— but he couldn't stop.

He had to be _sure_.

And so he'd stumbled on, picking his way through the remains of their mission, squinting through the smoke, hoping, begging— hell, even praying. And then when he'd finally started to believe that it was truly over, that even she— who had always seemed invincible, untouchable— was really gone, he had stepped through a wall of smoke and found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

Now, he was almost at her side, his steps unsteady in the uneven sand. His gaze was fixed to her face, her bloodshot eyes wide and her skin pale under the soot and dirt, tiny trails of blood standing out starkly at her eyebrow and lip.

And then she spoke his name, and he felt something inside himself tremble, his heart twisting at the faint trace of relief he heard in her voice.

She hated him, he knew; she hated all of them, had always stood cold and apart, tolerating them when she had to and avoiding them when she didn't. There had been times, here and there, where he'd thought maybe she didn't hate him _quite_ as much as the others, but he generally dismissed that as wishful thinking, especially when half the other guys seemed to claim the same about themselves.

And yet something in the way she watched him approach made him wonder, the careful guardedness he was used to seeing in her eyes giving way to something else, something raw and almost vulnerable, even if only for a few brief moments.

Then it was gone, and with two more quick strides he had dropped to his knees beside her, barely noticing the pain that radiated through his body as he stared down at her.

"Jesus, Briggs," he breathed, wishing he could reach out and touch her face, could wrap his arms around her and pull her hard against his chest. "I thought everyone was gone."

"Yeah, me too," she muttered, her nose wrinkling as she looked him over. "You look like shit, Weller."

With one of the guys, he would have responded with a joke or a similar jab, easing the tension and making their situation seem a little less dire. But somehow, he heard in her words the question she would never ask.

"Looks worse than it is. I'm gonna be fine," he said, reveling in the flicker of relief that flashed in her eyes. Unslinging the medkit from his shoulder, he placed it on the ground beside them, ready to go. He knew he'd need it; the fact that she hadn't moved for safer ground meant something was definitely wrong.

He just hoped it was something he could fix.

Steeling himself, he quickly scanned their surroundings, trying to keep his voice cool and untroubled. "What about you, what's your status? Ambulatory?"

In response, she let out an irritated sigh, making him glance back up at her; but she wouldn't look at him, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance.

"I will be, once I deal with this," she grumbled, then shifted her rifle from its place in her lap, revealing the large shard of metal protruding from her left thigh.

"Fuck, Briggs, lead with _that_ next time," he snapped, then quickly shifted backwards in the sand before carefully drawing her uninjured leg toward him, spreading her knees apart to give him space to assess both the entry and exit wounds. Without looking up at her, he gritted out, "Any other grievous injuries I should know about?

"No, Mother," she spat back. "Now just pull it out already so we can get out of here."

"The hell I will," he growled, letting his anger drown out the fear that threatened to choke him. "That thing could have sliced right through your femoral artery. If I even touch it you could bleed out in seconds."

Her voice was cold, sharp-edged with impatience. "I don't need an anatomy lesson from you, Weller. Just _take it out_."

He shook his head hard, ignoring the brief wave of dizziness that followed the action. "You know the protocol. It's staying right where it is until we get you to a doctor. Non-negotiable."

"Christ, Weller, let go of your precious protocol for once and just man up. Or I will."

Apparently determined to act on the threat, she propped herself up with one hand, the other reaching for the piece of metal— but instead he caught it with his own, his grip tight.

"_Stop_," he told her firmly, refusing to be cowed by the fire in her gaze. "This is not a debate, Briggs."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't have command here, _Corporal_."

The sarcasm in his tone matched hers, even if it lacked her anger. "Neither do you, Corporal."

Mouth twisting, she yanked her hand out of his grip, placing it behind her for support as she glared at him. Ignoring her, he worked fast— not only could he not trust her to not endanger herself, but the smoke was growing thicker, the heat from the wreck more intense. They needed to get out of here, _now_. Keeping a hand curled around the top part of the metal— partly to prevent her yanking on it, which he still couldn't trust her not to do, and partly to keep it from moving and hurting her— he dug at the ground under her thigh with his K-bar, loosening its hold around the other end of the piece of metal. When he felt it give a little, he looked up at her.

"Try lifting your leg."

Despite her anger at him, she obeyed; teeth clenched, she braced herself and strained, and he held his breath, watching the metal slowly lift free of the dirt beneath her. Seeing his opportunity, he swiftly hooked the medkit securely over his shoulder, then rose on one knee.

"I'm sorry, Briggs."

Her eyes had been clenched shut— the first and only sign of pain he'd ever seen from her— but at his words they snapped open, fixing on his a split second before he slipped one hand under her legs and the other behind her back, his body screaming in protest as he lifted her into his arms.

Biting back the pained groan that threatened to escape his lips, he heard her swallow a cry of her own, her face involuntarily pressing into his uninjured shoulder. Determinedly ignoring all of it, he turned and strode away from the wreckage, his eyes finding a tumble of large boulders a little to the south, maybe three or four hundred feet from the crash site. Still closer than he'd like, but better than nothing.

A moment later, he felt her head leave his shoulder, and glanced down at her, trying to read her expression— but she kept her face resolutely turned away, so all he could make out was the lowered eyebrows and the hard set of her jaw. He didn't doubt she was in intense pain— hell, they both were— but he knew her well enough to know that she would _never_ show it so outwardly, even in a situation as fucked up as this.

Which meant that what he'd seen— in addition to the steel-like tension he could feel in every inch of her body— could, without a shadow of a doubt, mean only one thing: Briggs was completely, utterly, one-hundred-percent furious with him.

And honestly, that was just fine by him.

She could hate him all she damn well liked— he'd just make sure she kept on living to do so.

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_Happy holidays guys, and thank you all for reading! Would love to hear any thoughts you guys might have (AKA please talk to me about this story it has consumed my life for literally months) so feel free to review haha_

_(PS- in this universe, the teen pregnancy storyline doesn't exist. JSYK.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey all, thank you so much for your lovely responses to the last chapter! I'm so happy to be sharing this story with all of you._

_Also, due to a somewhat intense holiday schedule, my editing had to be a little rushed this week. But I'll have another read over it sometime in the next few days and polish it up a bit if it needs it. _

_Enjoy :)_

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He was fucking carrying her.

Like she was the damsel in distress and he was the knight in fucking armor.

In any other situation, she never would have allowed it, would have already forced him to put her the fuck down and keep his damn hands to himself. But unfortunately— or rather, infuriatingly— for her, there was really no denying that letting her walk by herself would have only slowed them down, endangering them both even more.

So, just this once, he got a pass.

Didn't mean she had to like it.

By the time they'd gone a hundred or so feet, her rage had cooled slightly, the pain in her leg dulling to a tolerable throbbing. It was only then that she noticed how carefully he'd been holding her, his grip deliberately placed to ensure the least amount of pressure on her wound, even though it meant far greater strain on his arms and back— an effort which was obviously taking a toll, his breathing shallow and each step less steady than the last.

After another dozen or so feet, she gave in; letting out a small, irritated huff, she shifted her rifle so she could grip it securely in one hand, then grudgingly curled her other arm around his shoulders, taking some of the weight off his arms.

Clearly surprised, he glanced down at her, but she refused to look at him. She didn't owe him anything; she'd never asked for his help, or even wanted it. Just because he had his little boyscout honor code thing didn't mean she had to do the same, and the only reason she was helping right now was so he wouldn't fucking drop her and make everything even worse.

With the new arrangement, the rest of the distance seemed to pass a little more easily; yet when he lowered her gently down onto a small, knee-high boulder—carefully positioning her so the rock wouldn't touch the metal in her thigh— she could see what the distance had cost him, the exhaustion clear in his face, in his trembling hands and the slump of his shoulders.

Her own shoulder and side was now stained with his blood, the deep gouges across his chest still oozing steadily. Holding her like that must have been painful, the pressure worse with every breath, yet he'd done it without hesitation or complaint— and even now, he didn't stop, didn't take even a moment to rest. Instead, he knelt beside her outstretched leg, his face level with her thigh as he dropped the medkit to the ground beside him, one hand searching through it for the appropriate bandages while the other remained wrapped protectively around the piece of metal, as if he knew she would pull it free the moment he left it unguarded.

Because of course he fucking did. That had always been Weller's problem, the entire time she'd known him— he cared too damn much. About everything, and everyone.

Even those that were least worth it.

With a sigh, she let the last of her anger leave her, her gaze shifting from his hand to his face.

"Weller, the only way to get out of here alive is on foot," she began, keeping her tone reasonable, knowing the only way to get through to him was with pure logic. "You and I both know the nearest village is at least a two day march, probably more given the state we're in. And I'm not getting anywhere with this thing in me."

"If I take it out, you could bleed to death before you make it one step," he countered, voice grim. "You _know_ that."

"Exactly," she answered evenly, her eyes holding his. "I know the risk, and I still know it's the right call."

If the metal stayed in, she would slow them down too much, would expose them to both the elements and the enemy. With it out, she could move more freely, could maybe move fast enough that they might just make it out of here. And if taking it out _did_ kill her, well, at least then she wouldn't be a burden on him. He could take her canteen and rifle and go, and he would probably make it.

It surprised her just how okay she would be with that.

But Weller, it seemed, would not.

"No," he insisted stubbornly, shaking his head. "It stays in, and we both get out of here. That's the deal."

She took a breath, about to make it real damn clear just what 'the deal' was, when the helicopter suddenly said it for her; erupting into a sudden, brilliant fireball that shot dozens of yards into the sky, it near-deafened them both with a thunderous roar, sending out a wave of heat that they felt even at their distance.

The reserve tanks had finally blown, obliterating not only the chopper and the remains of their squadron, but literally everything within a hundred foot radius.

Which— if not for Weller— would almost certainly have included her.

"Well, if the enemy hadn't seen the smoke before, they sure will now," she said bluntly, ignoring the fresh ringing in her ears as she watched the thick black plume billowing towards the sky. "We're out of time, Weller. We have to go."

Looking down at him, she watched him stare mutely at the column of smoke, its presence more effective at drawing an attack than any homing beacon could be.

"Weller, look at me," she said quietly, not noticing the way her voice softened, losing the sharp edge that it held for everyone else. "Think about the infection risk. If there was a village over the next ridge we wouldn't be having this conversation, but having this thing in me for three days is too long. Keeping it in could kill me as easily as taking it out."

That seemed to get through to him; after another breath, his eyes finally shifted to hers, and she could see the pain in them, shadowed by a depth of fear that surprised her. This wasn't just about him being a boyscout and saving the damsel in distress. He knew there was a good chance she could die, and it terrified him.

Without stopping to contemplate what she was doing, she laid her hand over his where it encircled the metal atop her thigh, her eyes holding his. "Please, Weller."

For a long moment neither of them moved, the two of them simply staring silently at one another, an understanding forming that hadn't been there before. Then, finally, he shut his eyes and gave a small nod. Squeezing his fingers slightly, she let out a breath.

"We get everything ready first," he said, opening his eyes and looking up at her with a stern expression. "And once it's out, I'm taking command. You obey all orders whether you like them or not."

Indignation flared, sharp and instinctive; she didn't like being told what to do, especially by a man of the same damn rank. But she also saw the sense in it, and knew him well enough to know that he would only ever give her orders to prevent her from putting herself at risk— which, really, was better than most of the orders that she'd had to obey in her life.

"Fine," she answered coolly, and for a moment he searched her gaze, as if for confirmation she would stick to her end of the deal. Then he turned away and began pulling gauze and bandages out of the bag, holding some out to her. She automatically took them with her right hand, realizing belatedly that her left was still curled over his on her thigh.

Immediately releasing him, she pressed the pieces of gauze around the metal where it entered her thigh, knowing how he would want to proceed. A moment later he wrapped the bandage over each piece, placing more around the exit wound at the back of her thigh as he circled her leg with the bandage a couple more times. Handing her the long end, he gathered a few more pieces of gauze, ready to plug the hole they were about to make.

"I'm doing the pulling," she stated, fingers closing around the top of the metal. If he was right and this did kill her, then she wanted to die by her own hand. And even more than that, she didn't want her blood on his.

He looked surprised, but didn't try to talk her out of it, seeming to sense that this was something that she needed to take part in. Instead, he paused for a moment, his expression turning pensive.

"We do it together," he said, waving away her protest at the suggestion. "If it was like ripping off a bandaid, I'd leave it to you, Briggs. But we gotta go steady with this, and every second of it is going to hurt like a sonofabitch, so you're going to need the help."

Knowing that he was only going to keep arguing with her, she scowled at him. "Fine."

With a small, grateful nod, he rose on his knees, then swung one over her outstretched leg, trapping it securely between his thighs to stabilize her.

"No matter how bad it hurts, don't kick, or you won't be the one passing out," he joked, and she rolled her eyes, recognizing his lame attempt to lighten the tension.

"I've managed to control myself every other time I've been close to kicking a man in the balls," she answered dryly. "Don't see why this should be any different."

Despite his obvious anxiety, that drew a genuine chuckle from him, the sound actually settling her own nerves a little.

Then, he closed his hand around hers, his grip warm and firm, anchoring them both. Trying not to notice the feel of his skin on hers, she watched as he drew a deep, slow breath, seeming to steady himself, his shoulders straightening.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice quiet, serious once more.

"Tell me where the nearest village is," she blurted suddenly, ignoring his question.

Frowning up at her, he hesitated, then said, "Southwest. About thirty klicks."

Satisfied with the answer, she let out a breath, then dipped her head. "Then yeah. I'm ready."

"Alright. Plan is to pull it out the top, moving nice and steady to try and minimize damage. When it's far enough through, I'll cover the exit wound on the underside, and once it's out, you cover the top. Then I'll bandage both, while you concentrate on staying conscious. Clear?"

Meeting his eyes, she nodded. "Clear."

"On my three," he said, and they both tightened their grip.

"One. Two. _Three_."

As one, the two of them pulled steadily upward, a hoarse cry escaping through her teeth as the metal slid through her flesh. She felt his other hand press against the wound at the back of her thigh, heard his murmured words of encouragement, his eyes intense as they held hers.

And then, suddenly, it was gone.

The moment it came free, his hand released hers, immediately reaching for the end of the bandage. Half a second later, the metal hit the ground, her hands reflexively pressing gauze to the wound as he'd instructed her, fighting the wave of nausea and lightheadedness that washed through her. His own hands moved quickly to stem the flow from the wound, his skin now as stained with her blood as her fatigues were with his.

Even before he finished securing the bandage, though, the relief started to seep in; after all, they both had enough training to know instantly that her artery was undamaged, that with the proper pressure and bandaging— and stitching, sooner or later— she would heal up well.

Or well enough, at least.

When he finished, she watched him release a slow, relieved breath, his fingers smoothing over the swathe of bandages that now wrapped firmly around her thigh.

"Good work, Sergeant," she told him wryly, the new title making him glance up at her. He'd kept his side of the deal, though, so she would keep hers.

A fact that he was apparently going to make use of, considering the next words out of his mouth were his first order.

"These bandages are temporary only," he said firmly, eyes on hers. "You need stitching and re-bandaging under your fatigues asap. If these start to come loose or you start to bleed through you inform me immediately. Understood?"

"Understood, Weller."

"Alright," he said, then shifted his knees apart, freeing her leg before climbing stiffly to his feet. "Then let's see you walk."

Pushing herself up from the rock, she gingerly put weight on her left leg, pretending not to see the supporting arm he held out for her. Gritting her teeth, she took a step forward, then another, each movement sending white hot spears of pain through her wound— but her leg held, and that was all that mattered. Limping around in a little circle, she came back to face him, lifting her eyes to his and cocking an eyebrow in question.

"It'll have to do," he said reluctantly, glancing back towards the crash site, then up at the slowly lowering sun. "We need to get going. What's your status with provisions?"

Standing as upright as she could manage, she rattled off an inventory of everything that had made it through the crash with her. "Canteen, ¾ full. Rifle with full mag, no additional ammo. K-Bar and three small knives. No navigation or communications gear."

She saw him process that, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration, clearly weighing up their combined assets.

"Canteen, near full," he reported after a moment, still frowning. "No rifle or ammo. K-Bar. Medkit with small extra canteen and ten protein bars. No navigation or communications gear."

Seeing the concern in his eyes, she gave a shrug. "Could be worse."

That drew a half-smile from him, but it was faint and short-lived. Stepping back over to the medkit, he knelt down beside it and carefully packed away the unused bandages, then paused.

"You know much about medicines?"

"Enough."

Lifting the open medkit onto the large boulder beside him, he tipped his head, inviting her over. "Come find something to get us through the walk ahead."

Moving to join him— trying to minimize her limp as she did so— she looked down into the kit for a minute, eyes travelling over labeled packets and vials, most names familiar, some not.

"How do you feel about needles?" she asked, already reaching for two small syringes and capping them each with a needle.

He groaned. "God, today's the gift that just keeps on giving, isn't it? Please tell me I'm not about to be stabbed in the ass."

"Just the thigh," she said, drawing up a vial and then turning to him. "Hold still."

He sighed, but obeyed, and with a steady movement she pushed the needle straight through his fatigues and into the firm muscle of his outer thigh. He grimaced but didn't move, and 10 seconds later she had the needle out and was recapping it, securing it in one of the pockets.

"Please tell me that was an excellent painkiller."

"It's Cephazolin," she answered absently, smoothly drawing up another vial for herself. "The antibiotic used for battlefield amputations. A shot of this a day, and we should manage not to die of sepsis."

"Great. Do you want me to—" he began, but she didn't bother to let him finish, instead shoving the needle into her thigh just above the bandages, thumb pressing steadily down on the syringe. Ignoring the fresh spasm of pain from her thigh, she secured the syringe back in the bag in a separate pocket to Weller's, then pulled out a small packet.

Tipping a white pill into her palm, she held it out to him.

"Vicodin," she said simply.

He accepted it without question, swallowing it dry. Packet in hand, she hesitated, years of training warring with logic. With Shepherd, the use of painkillers was forbidden, considered a sign of weakness, of failure. She hadn't taken so much as a Tylenol since she was a child.

But without them, she would slow Weller down.

So, there was her answer.

She took the pill.

As she tucked the packet back into the kit, Weller held out a hand, his voice even. "I'll take the rifle, you take the medkit. If for any reason we get separated, each of us is to continue for the village without any delays. Understood?"

For a moment she didn't respond, her body instantly frozen, her mind rebelling against everything he'd just said. Compared to this, the question of the painkillers was nothing; giving up her weapon went against every single instinct she had, as if she were giving away a vital part of herself, one she couldn't survive without.

But it wasn't just about her, and her survival— not anymore.

If they were to get through this alive, she needed to trust him.

"Understood," she answered finally, eyes meeting his as she held the rifle out to him. Carefully accepting it, he hooked the strap over his shoulder then stepped away, holding the weapon at his side while she zipped the medkit and slung it onto her back.

Drawing a steadying breath, she glanced at the sky, then turned southwest.

From behind her, she heard Weller's voice. "Lead the way, Briggs."

So she did.

#########

Briggs was struggling.

He could see it plainly, had been watching all afternoon as she got paler and paler, as she stumbled more on the rocky ground, her teeth gritting with every step.

Early into their march he'd fashioned her a walking stick from one of the wizened desert trees they'd passed, and she'd not only accepted it, but had even given him a somewhat grudging thanks in return— which meant he'd gotten both a please and a thank you out of her today, two words he was pretty sure he'd never heard her use before in all the time they'd been stationed together.

Not that he'd heard her use many words at all; she'd never socialized with the rest of the squad, and had only ever seemed to speak in response to a direct order or when it was absolutely necessary.

Which made the way she'd acted toward him today all the more surprising.

He certainly wouldn't say they were now on friendly terms, but she seemed to have at least formed somewhat of a tolerance for him, necessity serving to soften that hard shell just a little.

Waiting for her to catch up with him, he did another quick sweep of their surroundings— they'd scaled one ridge on their slow trek and were now currently walking in the shadow of another— reassuring himself that there was no immediate threat from hostiles. No doubt the fire from their chopper had been clocked by quite a number of locals, but if they had any luck at all, no scouts or militia would have been close enough to get there in time to catch up with them.

Now, they just needed the sun to hurry up and finish its frustratingly slow descent below the horizon, the stunning colors of the desert sunset almost completely lost on him as he waited impatiently for nightfall. Since there was no way to prevent anyone with eyes from picking up the glaringly obvious trail he and Briggs had left behind, their only hope was that it would soon be too dark for anyone to track them— at least until morning.

Which brought him to the next issue on his list of Shit To Worry About. Shelter. With near-freezing temperatures overnight, out here simple exposure could kill them just as easily as soldiers could. Thankfully, he had a solution: in the hours they'd been walking, he'd done multiple brief forays into the terrain ahead, searching for signs of danger or ambush. He'd never gone far, never letting Briggs out of his sight for long— no way was he leaving her without protection for a second longer than necessary— and on this last sweep he'd finally gotten lucky.

The ravine they were following was rough, strewn with boulders and craggy outcrops. And it was behind one of those that he'd found it.

The cave.

Well, it was hardly a cave, really; more like a narrow crevice in the wall of the ravine, initially barely wide enough for him to squeeze into, but widening out into a space about eight by five feet, with the rock walls coming together high overhead in a steep, tapering point.

It was going to be cold and uncomfortable as hell— but at least decently sheltered from the elements, and easy to defend if it came to it.

Now, as Briggs finally reached him, he slung the rifle around to his back, then prepared to test just how far her tolerance of him extended. Turning, he fell into step beside her, one hand closing around hers as he lifted her left arm and ducked under it, his other arm encircling her and taking some of her weight.

She tensed instantly, shooting him a look of anger and indignation— and for a moment he was sure she'd pull away, or maybe even forcibly shove him away from her— but then she seemed to reconsider, letting out a small huff and just silently continuing forward as if nothing had happened. Feeling stupidly pleased about it, he carefully helped her over the uneven, rocky ground, trying to act like he hadn't been desperately wanting to do this since the moment they'd left the crash site hours ago.

Keeping his voice low, he told her about the cave, then guided her the last several hundred feet to its entrance before reluctantly letting her go. Sending her in ahead of him, he lifted the rifle and carefully scanned the terrain around them, only following her when he was sure they hadn't been observed.

Squeezing through the cramped entrance, he squinted, letting his eyes adjust— the light outside was failing, and it was even dimmer here; soon it would be too dark to see by. The first thing he did see as he made it inside was Briggs dropping the medkit onto the sandy floor of the cave, then reaching for the nearest wall, half-falling and half-leaning against it. Concerned, he took a hasty step towards her, but she wordlessly held up a hand in his direction, halting him. Instead he simply had to watch as she pressed her back against the rock and slowly slid down it until she was sitting at its base, exhaustion in every line of her body.

For a moment he simply looked at her, suddenly certain that he had never respected anyone so much in his life. He'd respected her the moment he'd met her, of course— Orion was unmistakably a boy's club, and any woman who could convince the chauvinistic higher-ups to ignore their unwritten rule was bound to be exceptional— and the more he'd seen from her, the more he'd respected her. But today… what she'd accomplished today was barely short of superhuman, and he knew that almost anyone else would have simply laid down and given up hours ago.

Hell, he probably would have.

Pulling himself back to the moment, he crossed over to her, unslinging the rifle and placing it down in easy reach as he took a seat against the wall beside her. Pulling the medkit over, he unzipped it and fished out a couple of the protein bars, offering one to her before unwrapping one of his own. It wasn't much, but it was a hell of a lot more than they might have had, and he was grateful for it.

For a few minutes, they chewed in silence, the moment feeling almost companionable. They may have just lost eight men with whom they'd spent just about every waking moment for the last five months, but at least neither of them was out here alone.

And the deeper truth— the one he'd been deliberately ignoring all day— was that of them all, she was the only one he couldn't bear to lose.

Clearing his throat in the suddenly too-quiet cave, he scrunched up the plastic wrapper and shoved it in a pocket of the medkit, then busied himself searching through its contents for the things he'd need to patch her up. Arranging them in a little pile in front of him, he looked up to find her watching him, a faint spark of something like amusement in her eyes.

"You don't let up, do you?"

"You knew the deal when you insisted on yanking that thing out of your leg," he reminded her, even though he knew now that she'd made the right call. "I stuck to my end, now you're sticking to yours."

"Sir, yes, Sir," she muttered, giving a small roll of her eyes that he decided was mostly just for show.

With everything ready, he shifted onto his bruised knees, thankful for the relative softness of the sandy floor. Reaching for the knot, he carefully untied it, then began unwinding the bandage from around her thigh, trying to be as gentle as possible. The next step was where the real problem lay; to actually assess the wound and fix it up properly, he would need her fatigues out of the way, and there was only one way to achieve that.

Pulling the last of the bandage free, he swallowed, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. "Uh…"

"God, quit blushing already and just help me get these off," she said with a huff, fingers already popping the buttons at the front of her trousers. Then, using her good leg to push herself up from the floor and her hands stabilizing her on either side, she shot him an impatient look.

Hating the fact that he most definitely _was_ blushing, he curled his fingers in the fabric at her hips, avoiding her eyes as he carefully worked the trousers down below her knees, exposing her black, boyleg underwear and a pair of toned, surprisingly pale thighs.

All of that was instantly forgotten, though, as his eyes fell to the jagged wound in her inner thigh, approximately halfway down to her knee and easily three inches long. Now that they'd removed the pressure of the bandage and fatigues atop it, it had started bleeding sluggishly again, the surrounding tissue an angry red.

Glancing up at her, he grimaced in apology. "I don't have any anaesthetic, but it really needs stitching, Briggs. Maybe I could get you another Vicodin, or something?"

"Don't bother. It's nothing I haven't been through before," she replied dismissively. "Just do what you have to."

Biting back the many questions that arose from that statement— she would never answer them anyway— he simply took a breath and got to work, pulling on some gloves from the kit and cleaning the wound as best he could with alcohol and gauze, all too aware that he was barely scratching the surface. He just had to hope that the antibiotic shot would take care of the rest.

Reaching back into the kit, he pulled out the needle and threaded it, glancing up at her briefly as he prepared to start. Her gaze was fixed dead ahead, her jaw taut; the only outward indication of the agony this must be causing her. Drawing a deep breath, he leaned in— pointedly ignoring the fact that his face was currently barely more than a foot from her crotch— giving a murmured warning as he began his first stitch.

To her credit, she never even flinched, not when one stitch became three, or three became five; she simply sat patiently, letting him work. He was about three-quarters done and deep in concentration when she suddenly spoke, her words surprising him.

"What are you doing here, Weller?"

Confused, he frowned up at her. "I'm stitching your—"

"No," she interrupted curtly, sounding almost frustrated. "What are you doing _here_. In Afghanistan, working for _Orion_, for fuck's sake. Never made sense, a boyscout like you working for a shadowy outfit like this."

For a minute, he didn't reply; it wasn't a question he'd ever expected to hear from her. He'd had similar questions from some of the guys, which he'd just always responded to with a wink and a sly remark about how appearances could be deceiving. He'd let them think that something dark and twisted lay beneath the apparently noble exterior, because it had been the easiest way to fit in, to find acceptance in a group where possessing a broken moral compass appeared to be not only an attribute, but a requirement.

Briggs, though, she was different from the rest; like him, she did the work, but she didn't live for it like the others did. They were both outsiders in their own way— not that she'd ever given any indication that she'd noticed, or cared. She was a mystery he'd spent too many hours pondering over, but never in all that time had he ever thought that he might be a mystery to her too.

As he finished his stitch and moved to the next, he let out a slow breath.

"When I was ten, my best friend went missing," he began, reciting the words impassively, mechanically— as though he'd been saying them all his life, even though it had been more than a decade since he'd last spoken them aloud. "She was five, our next door neighbors' kid. My father was the prime suspect, but they never had the evidence to pin anything on him. I didn't either, but I _knew_ it was him."

Swallowing back that same old burning feeling that rose in his throat, he pushed on. "I knew, and I hated him for it. I enrolled in a military academy to get away from him, and then by the time I reached graduation, the army just seemed like the obvious choice. Can't get much further away than the other side of the world."

For a long moment, she was silent, but he could sense her eyes on his face, her tone indecipherable as she spoke the words he hadn't said.

"They never found her."

"No," he answered flatly, occupying himself with finishing his knot. By the time he had cut the thread free, though, he couldn't help but flick a glance up at her, and then immediately away again, finding himself admitting a truth he'd never expected to share. "In some ways, you actually remind me of her. Same eyes. Same fire."

Concentrating on rethreading the needle for the final stitch, he tried to ignore the silence that now surrounded them, feeling absurdly grateful when she broke it.

"Still doesn't explain Orion."

Taking a breath, he hesitated, then gave the short version. The safe version.

"Gotta know how broken the system is before you can start to fix it. Once our tour was up, I was going to head back stateside and join the Bureau, see if getting high enough in one limb would help me trim the rotten branches from another. I already know there's people there who want the same, so it's just a matter of working my way to where they are. So yeah, I guess maybe that'll be what I do next, if we make it back home."

She didn't make any reply to that, and he didn't lift his eyes away from his work, unsure he wanted to see what she thought of his admission. But he couldn't hold back his own curiosity any longer.

"Why are _you_ here, Briggs?"

She was quiet even longer than he had been; he'd finished the last stitch and was taping a gauze pad over the wound when she finally gave an answer.

"Maybe I know something about parental betrayal, too," she said quietly, her voice steady, detached, revealing nothing. "Orion's one of the few places she can't reach me. Plus, it's where the danger is."

The last words were spoken almost like an afterthought, his hand stilling on her thigh and eyes lifting to hers as he processed her meaning. Maybe she'd simply meant she needed the adrenaline of front-line combat, but he already knew that that wasn't it.

Because he knew exactly what she meant, knew it with a certainty that hit him like a punch to the gut.

Briggs had come to Orion looking for a suicide mission.

She didn't give him a chance to find a response to that revelation, however; firmly pushing herself away from the wall, she shifted over until she could roll onto her stomach on the sandy floor, her head turning to shoot a glance over her shoulder at him.

"Job's only half done, Sergeant," she said pointedly, then looked away again, her head coming to rest on her folded arms. Knowing a dismissal when he heard it, he let out a quiet sigh, then gathered his materials to start the process over again with the exit wound on the back of her thigh.

For a few brief moments there, she'd opened the door just a fraction, letting him see past the fortress-like walls that she kept around herself. But now it was closed again, and he was once more on the outside, more desperate for answers than ever.

Still, he found he couldn't feel too disappointed; after all, she'd said more to him in the several hours since the crash than she had in the entire five months they'd worked together.

Who knew what the next two days with her would bring.

#########

* * *

_Thanks again for reading, and I hope you all had an awesome start to 2020! Please feel free to review and tell me about what you did for New Years haha_

_(PS- I've done a fair bit of research to try to keep this fic pretty factually accurate, but if you spot something you think isn't right, let me know! I'm always happy to learn). _


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey guys, welcome back! Again, thank you for the awesome reviews on last chapter, they make my day :)_

_Sorry for the brief delay with this one, I've done a lot of travelling over the last week!_

_Enjoy x_

* * *

#########

It seemed she'd traumatized Weller.

In the ten or so minutes since he'd finished stitching her up, he'd been careful to keep at least three feet away from her at all times— which, given the limited dimensions of their current surroundings, was actually somewhat of an achievement. No doubt his distance and silence was completely deliberate, all part of some ridiculous gentlemanly apology for the terrible crime of having to see her in her underwear.

She couldn't care less about that; she'd suffered far worse 'indignities' in her life than being partially undressed before an acquaintance. Or whatever the hell it was that he was to her— a colleague? Teammate? She didn't really know— didn't really have a basis for comparison, given that until today she'd simply classed anyone outside Shepherd and Roman under two basic categories: enemies or potential enemies.

For five months, she'd considered him as the latter, and it was technically still as true now as it had been then; she was all too aware that anyone could become a threat at any time, and that certainly included Weller.

And yet she couldn't escape the feeling that he didn't fit into either group— that his loyalty, once given, was indelible and unshakeable.

Didn't mean she believed it, and definitely didn't mean she was stupid enough to trust him.

If her usual categories didn't apply, though, then he would have to be something else. 'Ally' was probably the closest she would grant him, the two of them uniting for a common goal: to get the fuck out of this desert alive.

She found herself still thinking about him as she hobbled out of the cave to relieve herself— something that was now much easier than it had been earlier, without that annoying bandage clamping her fatigues to her leg— her mind dwelling on what he'd told her, all his naive dreams of fixing a system that was already beyond repair.

Because in this at least, she knew Shepherd was right; the US Government was a lost cause, a broken thing too far gone to ever be salvaged.

Just like her.

So why did this idealistic, overly-trusting man make her feel like there was somehow hope— not just for their country, but for her as well?

God, barely half a day alone in his company and she was already starting to sound like him. Shaking her head in disgust, she made her way back into their cave, seeing him sitting against the rough wall with his legs stuck out in front of him, his features blurring slightly in the rapidly fading light. The large, dark stain on his neck and torso was still glaringly obvious, however, and she felt her annoyance rise all over again at the sight of it.

Mouth twisting, she crossed the space between them with a determined stride, picking up the rifle on the way and swiftly removing its flashlight attachment. Clicking it on, she handed it to him, and he accepted it automatically as she set the rifle down at his side. Then, she stepped forward, lightly kicking his legs a little further apart before lowering herself to her knees between them, gritting her teeth to hold back the hiss of pain that wanted to escape her lips.

Ignoring his wide-eyed stare, she settled herself a little more comfortably— she'd never hear the end of it if she popped his precious stitches already— then gestured curtly to his right.

"Kit."

There was a moment's delay, then he hastily reached out and pulled the medkit over, its side coming to rest against the outside of his knee. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out an assortment of items, already knowing exactly what she'd need.

Looking up from her task, she found him still watching her, his eyes full of surprise and something else that she had no interest in trying to decipher right now.

"Weller."

He blinked. "What?"

"Are you going to take that off so I can work, or?"

"What?" he repeated blankly, a confused frown creasing his forehead as he stared at her.

"Jesus christ," she muttered, then reached for the front of his tattered fatigues, her fingers making quick work of the few buttons that had survived the crash.

"Right, shit, sorry," he sputtered, his hands lifting to help her, but she waved them away.

"No, just— I've got it," she said, finishing with the last button before switching to his cuffs. At least now he seemed to get with the program, his upper body leaning forward slightly, their foreheads almost touching as she reached up and pushed the fabric back over his shoulders. He managed from there, his arms shifting back as he worked himself free of the dusty sleeves. The dried blood slowed him down a fraction, the fabric sticking to his skin— but he didn't ask for her help and she didn't offer it, and soon enough the jacket was crumpled in the space between his lower back and the wall, and they were faced with their next problem.

The tight tan undershirt was all but glued to his body, three-quarters of it stained black with sweat and dirt and blood, so much of a mess that she couldn't even gauge the wounds underneath.

For a moment she paused, frowning at it as she weighed their options.

"Just cut it," he told her, a hint of a smile in his voice. "I won't miss it out in the heat tomorrow."

"How about when you freeze your ass off tonight?" she shot back, but he just shook his head, that infuriating little smile still on his face.

"I'll live. Just cut it."

"Fine," she muttered, then found the shears in the kit and started cutting up along the left side of the shirt, his skin warm beneath her fingers. She already knew what she'd see when it was gone; you didn't live with nine men for five months without seeing all of them half-naked on a regular basis. And of course, theirs was an elite unit, which meant that they were all in the peak of physical condition; some were that lean, wiry type, others so jacked they looked like human balloon animals. She had no interest in either.

Weller, though— he was different, fitting somewhere in the middle; broad but not soft, toned but not overly defined. His body was that of a warrior, even if it seemed his heart was not.

Not that she gave a shit either way.

Finishing the last cut from the collar to the hem of his sleeve, she positioned his hand holding the flashlight to where it would give her the best light, then began peeling back the crusty fabric, loosening its hold by tipping a tiny amount from her canteen over his chest as she went, proceeding with more gentleness than she was used to showing anyone.

Before she could analyze that too deeply, however, the shirt was gone, exposing the firm, somewhat hairy chest beneath— and the ragged wounds marring it.

"Jesus, you're a fucking hypocrite, you know that, Weller?" she snarled, her eyes pinning his. "You made all that noise about fixing my leg and you're walking around like this?"

Startled by her sudden ire, he pressed back against the wall a little, stumbling over his words. "I didn't— uh, it's really not that bad—"

"Do you know what the subclavian artery is? If this wound had been just a little deeper, you wouldn't have lived long enough to find out," she growled, anger making her hands tremble. "All three of these cuts are to the fucking bone, Weller. You're goddamn lucky they clotted up as well as they did or you'd have dropped before you even made it halfway here."

He at least had the sense to take her seriously, his voice genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry, Briggs. I swear I didn't realize how bad they were."

Letting out a huff, she forcibly controlled her temper, making herself focus as she shifted her eyes to his upper arm, then his temple, her gaze assessing. "The others are shallow. I'll do the basics, then someone at the village can deal with you."

She felt the breath he let out, could hear the faint trace of relief in his tone. "Understood."

"It's going to hurt like a bitch," she warned, already reaching for the packet of Vicodin. "You'll want some painkillers."

He shook his head. "Save them. I'll manage."

Pressing her lips together, she fought the reflexive urge to argue; after all, he was a big boy, and if he wanted to suffer through this, then that was his own damn decision.

Any pain that he was about to experience, he'd brought on himself— so no way in hell she was going to feel even a moment's guilt about it.

Soaking some gauze, she shifted closer and carefully cleaned the wounds on his chest, washing away the blood and grime until she could see the edges clearly, her jaw clenching every time she caught the glint of pale white sternum or rib peeking from the moist red of his flesh. Both soon disappeared, though, her sutures appearing much more quickly and efficiently than his, her movements steady and practiced.

Before long, she had turned the slashes on his chest into three tidy lines, all of which was hidden under a securely taped gauze pad. As she gathered fresh materials from the medkit, she felt his eyes leave her face for the first time since she'd started working on him, and looked over to find him staring curiously down at his chest.

"You're good at that," he commented, admiration mixing with a faint note of surprise.

She gave a small, dismissive shrug. "I've had a lot of practice."

He glanced up at her again, his words more of a question than a statement. "But you're not a medic."

"Very perceptive, Weller. Gold star," she mocked, hoping it would be enough to discourage him from the conversation, but he only sounded more intrigued.

"Were you in some kind of medical profession before you enlisted?"

She sighed. "No."

There was a pause, then: "Taxidermist?"

"No."

"...Seamstress?"

"_No_. What are you doing, Weller?" she demanded, her irritation edged with suspicion.

"Just trying to learn a bit more about you," he answered blithely, seemingly unfazed by her prickliness. "And since you've spoken more words to me in the last several hours than you have in the entire time we've known each other, now seemed like a good time to ask."

That threw her; for a long moment she just stared at him, for once at a loss for a cutting remark or even a threatening glare. Then she blinked and shook her head, returning wordlessly to her task, keeping her focus on her hands as she cleaned the cuts on his upper arm.

The silence didn't last long.

"So you weren't a medical professional, a taxidermist, or a seamstress," he persisted recklessly, and she shot him a disbelieving look, beginning to wonder if he'd actually hit his head harder than she'd realized. Fixing his eyes intently on hers, he asked frankly, "Then what were you?"

"Someone who saw a lot of wounds," she answered sharply. Then, more quietly, she added, "And inflicted them."

That finally seemed to get through to him— in a rare show of sense, he fell silent, even managing to stay that way as she finished dressing the cuts on his arm and moved to the one on his temple, his head turning obligingly to allow her easy access.

Leaning in a little closer— even with the flashlight, it was difficult to see what she was doing— she ignored the heat that radiated from his body, her eyes fixed only on his injury. The cut was fairly shallow, but the edges were clean and dead straight; whatever had done it had been as sharp as a razor.

Clearly, his helmet had taken the brunt of the hit; if it hadn't, he'd be dead right now.

And her too, probably, not that there was any way in hell she was going to admit that to him.

Thankfully, Weller remained quiet as she worked, only the faint sounds of their breathing breaking the silence. Once the wound was clean, she put the adhesive steri-strips over it, but left it otherwise uncovered. Automatically reaching for another bit of damp gauze, she started to wipe it carefully over his cheekbone, cleaning away the blood that had run down the side of his face— then abruptly registered what she was doing, and pulled back.

"I'm done," she told him gruffly, then tossed the gauze into his lap. "If you want the rest of the blood off, that's on you."

He started to thank her, but she waved him off, not wanting to hear it. Abruptly uncomfortable with their proximity, she pushed herself to her feet, only to have her damn useless leg almost give way beneath her, the sudden change in position sending a flame of agony up her thigh. Throwing out her hands, she caught herself against the wall, feeling Weller's hands instantly cupping the backs of her knees, holding her steady.

"Woah, Briggs, you okay?" he asked worriedly, his concerned eyes staring up at her, his face inches from her crotch for the second time this evening.

"I'm fine," she growled, "Let go, Weller."

His hands dropped away instantly, but she could feeling him still watching her closely, ready to offer help if she needed it.

She didn't; he hadn't figured it out yet, but she didn't need a damn thing from him.

And didn't want it, either.

Jaw clenched, she pushed off from the wall, limping backwards a couple of steps until she could turn and cross to the other side of the cave, her hand out in front of her in the gloom. Behind her, she could hear Weller climbing stiffly to his feet, then the soft scrunch of his footsteps as he moved towards the cave's entrance, the flashlight clicking off as he went.

"Back in a minute, Briggs. Just going to do a last check before we bunk down."

She didn't bother to reply.

Nor did she let herself wonder why the space suddenly seemed colder with him gone.

#########

It was freezing out in the ravine.

He'd pulled the outer layer of his fatigues back on, but hadn't bothered to button it, and a faint breeze chilled the bare skin of his chest and face, skin that just minutes ago had felt ablaze under her touch. He was still stunned by everything that had just happened, half-convinced that he must have taken a much harder knock to the head than he'd initially thought, because nothing else seemed to make sense.

Maybe it was just that she hated being indebted to anyone, so she'd felt that she had to help fix him up like he'd done for her. Maybe she'd just wanted to make sure he wasn't going to somehow up and die on her, leaving her to make it the rest of the way without any backup.

But it had felt like more than that.

As his eyes traced the moonlit walls of the ravine, searching for any movement, he mulled it over.

The guys had always liked to joke about her. _Corporal Briggs: hot as hell on the outside, cold as ice on the inside. _He'd never entirely bought into that— well, the second part at least, given that the first was completely indisputable. He agreed, mostly, that she wasn't exactly a warm person; she didn't take part in anything that wasn't directly related to their op, didn't socialize during rec time, barely even spoke. And the only smiles he'd ever seen on her face were small and sharp-edged, more the look of a predator than anything else.

And yet he'd always felt that there was more going on beneath the surface, locked away behind that expressionless mask. More than once he'd glimpsed her showing kindness to one of the local children, or one of the many stray animals. It was always a brief, furtive moment, as if it were something shameful she had to hide, or even something she would be punished for if caught— which made absolutely zero sense, yet was exactly how it felt.

Plus, there wasn't a guy on the squad whose life she hadn't saved at some point or other, most of the time putting her own life on the line to do so. Before today, he'd already owed her his life twice over— and those were just the times he knew about. No doubt the actual count was far higher, with the way she watched over them all.

Still, he'd always thought she'd disliked him and the other guys, hated them even, but now... now, he knew that it wasn't true.

Earlier, he'd thought she'd simply chosen to tolerate him out of necessity, their circumstances robbing her of any real choice in the matter. But tonight— whether she'd meant to or not— she'd let that ever-present mask slip just a fraction, and he'd finally seen who was underneath.

And somehow, at least in some very small way, that person cared for him.

Now, combine that bombshell with the fact that she'd just spent close to the last half hour practically in his lap, with her hands on his chest and her breath hot on his skin, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to think straight again.

Which was just what he needed while crossing miles of desert in hostile territory with minimal supplies and a single, partly-loaded weapon.

Christ.

With a heavy sigh, Weller finished his sweep of the area, then quietly relieved himself before turning and moving back into the cave. Though it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, he instinctively knew Briggs hadn't moved from her spot against the wall, her eyes feeling like lasers on his skin.

Spotting the faint glow of the medkit's reflective cross, he went over to it, kneeling and setting the rifle securely on the floor before reaching into the kit, his fingers taking only a moment to find the object he was after. Pulling out the plastic-wrapped package, he tore it open, then shook out the contents, the foil blanket making a satisfyingly crinkly sound as it unfurled.

"Here, Briggs," he said, holding it out in her vague direction. "It's not much, but it's something."

Her voice rose out of the dimness to his right, her words firm.

"You're already a layer short, Weller. Stop trying to be a gentleman and just keep the damn blanket."

"You said you'd follow orders," he reminded her. "Take the blanket."

A huff of irritation answered him. He couldn't see the annoyed twist of her lips in the darkness, but he could picture it all the same, his mind far more familiar with her every expression than he was entirely comfortable with.

"Fine, then we'll share it," she said finally, scooting over so she was beside him in the center of the floor. Her night vision was clearly better than his; she seemed as unfaltering here as ever.

Certain he'd misheard her, Weller repeated stupidly, "Share it?"

She sighed. "God, Weller, quit being such a little girl. You're not going to catch cooties."

Recovering himself, he arched an eyebrow that she couldn't see. "First I'm a gentleman, now I'm a little girl. Which is it, Briggs?"

"Somehow you manage to be both," she shot back, her voice dry. "Now shut up and lie down."

Hesitantly, he obeyed, lying down onto his side and tucking a hand under his head, thankful for the cushioning provided by the sandy floor. He heard her shifting in the space behind him, then started slightly as her body suddenly came into contact with his, pressing snugly against him from her chest to her feet. There was a crinkle of foil and then the blanket settled atop them both, her arm curling around his abdomen in a way that had him tensing even further.

"Christ, Weller, relax," she grumbled against his back. "There are probably boulders out there that would be more comfortable to sleep next to."

Releasing the breath that had suddenly frozen in his lungs, he pushed himself up a little on his shoulder, trying to keep his voice steady. "Shit, Briggs, let me go. One of us should be sitting watch."

"Easy, soldier," she ordered, stilling him. "It's safe. The gun's beside me, and I've spent my entire life sleeping with one eye open. We'll be fine."

The words immediately distracted him, curiosity overriding his awkwardness, and he could tell by her brief silence that she regretted them. Clearing her throat slightly, she continued gruffly, "Trust me, Weller. If anyone comes, I'll know."

After several moments of silence, he spoke her name. "Briggs?"

"What is it, Weller?" she asked, and he could hear the fatigue in her voice, the faint trace of impatience that lay underneath.

"I do."

He could tell she was frowning now. "Do what?"

"Trust you."

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. "I know."

Then she tucked her forehead into the space between his shoulderblades, and within moments, her breathing had evened out, her body relaxing into his. He'd seen her practically fall asleep on command before, but not from this close.

Letting out a slow, unsteady breath, he closed his eyes, letting the tension slowly seep from his body. Somehow, he believed her when she said they would be okay.

And if not, if they _were_ discovered and killed in the night— well, spending his last hours with Remi Briggs wrapped around him like spaghetti was a good way to go.

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_Thanks for reading! Btw I promise we're pretty much to the end of the injury-focused bits now, so we can focus on other fun stuff instead, like more spooning haha_


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks again for the awesome reviews, guys :) _

_Hope you enjoy this new chapter! Warning, there is a brief bit of violence ahead. _

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She woke first.

It was inevitable, really, her body coming alert at 0430 like the flipping of a switch, her body clock programmed by a lifetime of rising before the sun. Weller clearly didn't share the habit; she could feel his deep, even breathing, their bodies still pressed close, their shared bodyheat effectively staving off the night's chill.

Which was the sole reason why she didn't bother to move. Not to mention that extricating herself from him— his arm had come to rest over hers sometime in the night— would probably wake him, and she needed him as rested as possible for the day ahead. They still had a lot of distance to cover, through conditions and terrain that were likely only going to get rougher, and they'd have to remain constantly vigilant every moment, keeping watch for scouts or mounted bands of hostiles.

Laying there in the darkness, she made use of the time, mentally cataloguing their assets and resources as well as their weaknesses, analyzing the possible risks and outcomes with the same efficiency and precision Shepherd had always demanded. Overall, their situation wasn't optimal, but she'd certainly been through worse with Roman and their team. And with the Seals, too, now that she thought about it.

Honestly, this was really just the latest in the long line of fucked up situations that made up her life.

Though Roman would have definitely been her first choice to endure this with, she had to admit that Weller made for a good substitute, the two of them functioning efficiently as partners. She didn't trust anyone who wasn't part of her inner circle— had learned that lesson early and learned it hard— but of all the outsiders she'd ever met, she'd always mistrusted Weller least.

She'd already mentally mapped out their movements for the upcoming 24 hours— with several variations dependent on what obstacles they might encounter— when he finally began to stir, his shoulder shifting against the sand, the movement making his fatigues tickle her nose.

Irritated, she turned her face away from his back, trying at the same time to draw her arm out from under his so she could roll free. She was punished for her earlier soft-heartedness in letting him sleep undisturbed, though, because while extricating herself then would have been simple, now it was met with the obstacle of a semi-conscious man, who— judging by the way his fingers laced through hers and drew their joined hands towards his heart— was very accustomed to playing little spoon to the woman who usually shared his bed.

Flushed with a sudden anger— because that's all it was, certainly not embarrassment or jealousy— Remi yanked her hand away, and in spite of her leg wound had already rolled to her feet and stepped away before Weller had even fully sat up, his eyes wide with confusion before the pained grimace triggered by his sudden movement shuttered them, one hand lifting to the wounds on his head.

Angrier still at the unexpected stab of remorse that went through her for being the cause of his pain, she spoke coldly, her arms crossing tightly across her chest.

"At ease, Weller. The only enemy here is the dawn."

His eyes fixed on her in the gloom, mouth opening slightly, and for a second she was sure he was about to do something stupid— like mention a single word about what had just passed— her body already half-turning towards the cave entrance before his tone halted her.

"If it's dawn, then we need to get moving," he stated brusquely, and she watched with raised eyebrows as he rose to his feet, moving with a fluidity that belied his injuries and his disorientation of a moment before.

"Store the blanket and check the supplies," he ordered, then strode past her before she could speak, already clearly anticipating her intention and immediately thwarting it. "I'm going to go scout ahead, I'll be back in five minutes. If your wounds need tending, we'll do it then."

He left the cave without another word or glance, left both its protection and hers, and for a moment she grit her teeth, instinct warring with both common sense and deeply ingrained training. She was fully aware of what he was doing; better to lose one to ambush and give the other a fighting chance than to lose both simultaneously. It was textbook, literally the most basic of Basic Training, but that still didn't make her hate it any less.

By the time he'd been gone ninety seconds, she was already simmering with agitation, the neatly-packed medkit over her shoulder and her rifle at the ready, her eyes fixed on the narrow gap that led to open air— and to Weller.

The moment the five minutes ticked over, she started towards the entrance, but was halted by her name, carried in on a whisper. Weller followed it, hands up and moving slow, as if she could ever confuse him for an enemy, as if her gun hadn't been pointed to the floor before he could even fully speak her name.

Rolling her eyes, she asked curtly, "Status?"

"Appears clear," he replied, then looked her over. "Anything need to be done for your injuries?"

"No. Yours?"

He shrugged. "Seems to be holding up."

With a nod, she reached into the medkit, then held out a hand to him. "Here."

Glancing down at it, he sighed, but took the syringe without comment. Finding and uncapping her own, she calmly stabbed it into her thigh, then watched as he reluctantly did the same. Once he'd recapped it, she accepted it back from him, tucking each into their separate pockets.

"Can you pass me the—" he began, then cut himself off as she held out the canteen to him, a ghost of a smile passing across his face as he accepted it from her. As he drank, she pulled two of the protein bars from where she'd stashed them in her pocket and held one out to him, trading it for the canteen and taking a swig of her own, the action allowing her to pretend not to see the look he was directing at her.

"Seems like we make a pretty good team," he commented, sounding annoyingly smug about it.

"One would think we'd had the exact same training, or something," she answered sarcastically, her eyes fixing again on the cave entrance as she took a deliberate bite of her protein bar.

Having already inhaled his in two huge bites, he used the moment to study her, his next question surprising her.

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine," she answered, her voice as flat as she could make it. No way in hell would she ever tell him the truth; she'd go to her fucking grave before she'd ever admit that last night was the best sleep she'd had in nearly two goddamn decades.

Not that that fact had _anything_ to do with him.

Seemingly realizing she wasn't going to return the question, he said, "Yeah, me too. Definitely better than expected, given the circumstances."

Swallowing the last bite of protein bar, she handed the medkit over to him, then turned away, trying to regain some of the coldness and distance between them that she was accustomed to. "Give me some space, I'm going to make latrine in here before we go."

Rather than making him uncomfortable, however, her attempt only seemed to amuse him. "Call out if you need help," he told her as he went, and she didn't know whether it was his clear sincerity or the trace of mischief that lay underneath it that pissed her off more.

The process actually was somewhat difficult and awkward, the inwardly-sloping angle of the cave walls not nearly as accommodating as the handily shaped boulder she'd found outside the night before, but she would literally rather die out here in this hellscape of a desert than submit to the mortification of having Weller help her go to the toilet. It was nothing to do with privacy or being missish about bodily functions; she'd let go of almost every thought of privacy and feminine delicacy long ago. Vulnerability, though— that, she couldn't handle, and in the last eighteen or so hours Weller had already seen her more vulnerable than anyone other than Roman and Shepherd had ever seen her; and even then, she'd been a teenager, not a grown fucking woman.

No, Weller had already seen far too much, had gotten far too close for comfort— and almost close enough to be dangerous.

Thankfully, she had a lifetime's worth of training in shutting people out; colleagues, acquaintances, men interested enough in her looks or body to initially ignore her coldness— they were allowed only so close as their purpose required. And the moment they ceased to have one, they were discarded, forcibly barred from her life by the many impenetrable walls she'd built up.

Weller would be no different; he was just another person with a purpose to fulfill, and then he would be gone.

The thought was meant to be reassuring— and yet, for some reason it didn't feel that way.

She gave no indication of her struggle—physical or emotional— when she joined him at the opening of the crevice a minute later, and for once he had the sense not to open his mouth. As he led the way out into the ravine, he seemed to pick up on her mood, leaving behind the easygoing guy and reverting to the hardened soldier she was far more comfortable with, his attitude all business. For the next several hours, they communicated solely by look and hand signal, their progress steady and silent as they slowly made their way southwest.

In fact, the first word she spoke after leaving the cave was his name, tearing desperately from her throat as the blade arced down to sever his neck.

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In the split second he heard her cry out his name, he knew he was about to die.

His brain didn't have time for conscious thought; didn't have time to weigh up whether her shout had been a warning or a call for help, didn't have time to choose how he should react.

He just heard the true _fear_ in her voice, and he knew.

Because Remi Briggs was not afraid to die.

As ever, his body responded to her before his mind could, and he threw his weight forward, doing his best to roll as he hit the hard ground. The impact still knocked the breath out of him, his wounds afire with fresh pain, but the sound of something else hitting the ground hard right where he'd been standing a moment ago had him rolling instantly onto his back, the medkit shielding his chest and his K-Bar raised to fend off the attack— just as the crack of a gunshot tore through the air.

The man holding the machete dropped like a stone, his body sprawling over Weller's legs, soaking his trousers with the warm torrent escaping the bullet hole in the dead center of his chest.

He'd barely extricated himself from under the corpse when Briggs dropped to a knee beside him, her rifle still up and eyes scanning every inch of the rocky bluffs that rose around them.

"Are you mobile?" she asked urgently, barely waiting for his affirmative before gesturing with her rifle at the large jumble of boulders he had just passed, which had undoubtedly been where his assailant had concealed himself. "Grab the machete and take cover. I'll be on your six."

Obeying without hesitation, he scooped up the blade and swiftly covered the few yards to the boulders at a half crouch, where he found a naturally-formed void between two large opposing boulders approximately six and a half feet off the ground. Ignoring the sharp tug of his wounds, he swiftly pulled himself up and into the cramped space, then turned to reach down for her, finding her with her back to the rocky wall, still scanning with her rifle.

"_Briggs_," he whispered harshly, and finally she slung the rifle over her shoulder and turned, her hands closing tightly around his and feet pushing against the boulder's surface as he pulled her up and into the narrow space with him. Letting him go, she shoved him deeper into the gap— the action done under the pretext of making space to unsling her rifle, but he couldn't miss the fact that she was now entirely blocking him from both sight and fire.

As if sensing his thoughts, she started to speak, her words quiet but firm as she stared out into the desert.

"He jumped from here. It was a brainless move— these rocks provide good cover, but they also obscured his own view, so he could have had no idea what backup you had. Probably didn't care if another of us got him, as long as he took one down with him."

Which he so nearly had. And would have, if not for her.

"Taking the shot was stupid, and risky," she said abruptly, her voice hardening. "I should have thrown a knife— I was in range, and I would have made the target, but I didn't stop to _think_."

He'd never seen her so rattled, so removed from her usual control. But it wasn't panic; it was furious self reproach, as if she'd committed some great sin. Leaning forward a little, he nudged her shoulder, making her look back at him. Holding her gaze with his, he let her see the awe and gratitude he felt, let her hear it in his voice.

"Briggs, you just saved my life."

"And further endangered both of our lives by announcing to everyone in a 500 yard radius that we're here," she snapped back, her eyes fierce. "I made a call based on _emotion_, not logic. It's the first fucking rule of training, and I was a _child_ the last time I broke it."

There was such a mixture of disbelief and disgust in her tone that he could do nothing for a moment but just stare at her, wondering more than ever what kind of life she'd lived before he met her. And sensing that there was only one way to focus her.

"Well, regardless of the method, I'm alive because of what you did," he told her, his words gentle but steady with certainty. "Not only just now, but multiple times in the past as well, probably more than I'll ever know about."

Holding his breath— talk about stupid, risky moves— he reached out, and laid his hand over hers where it rested on the rifle. "So thank you."

The moment he touched her, she froze, the wild look in her eyes replaced by something stony and unreadable. She didn't lash out at him, though, which he considered about as much success as he could have hoped for. Reluctantly pulling his hand away— the contact had lasted barely more than a couple of seconds— he ignored the tingling in his palm, instead turning his focus to his watch and speaking in a clipped, professional tone.

"Now, time to make a decision. What's your situational assessment, Corporal?"

This was the right move. Briggs was a soldier down to her bones, and war was her solid ground. He could feel the immediate shift in her, her shoulder brushing his as she drew a measured breath, turning back to scan their surroundings.

"One hostile, unmounted, with a short range weapon," she reported, then rattled off a perfect dot-point summary of their situation. "No indications of a settlement nearby, so the hostile is likely to be a member of a scouting party, traditionally including 5-15 militants. All are likely to be mounted and at least half in possession of long range weapons. Our options are to remain here and engage with all hostiles drawn by the gunfire, or distance ourselves from this location and hope to safely reach cover elsewhere without being detected."

As she finished, he gave a slow nod of agreement, then turned to face her. "What is your recommendation?"

Watching her, he saw her hesitate, fascinated by the uncertainty that crossed her features. Never in the five months they'd known each other had he ever seen her display even a moment's doubt in making tactical decisions, so much so that even their commanding officers had often subtly deferred to her level-headed, seemingly infallible judgment.

Something had changed in Briggs since the crash; he was seeing that more and more clearly with every hour they spent together. Another person might assume it was due to the direness of their situation, the sheer improbability of their surviving the journey, but he knew that wasn't it.

From everything he'd seen and heard, Briggs' life meant practically nothing to her.

But, he was now realizing, it seemed _his_ did.

Holy shit.

"We stay here," she said finally, breaking through his reverie. "These boulders provide solid cover on all sides, focusing all attacks from the front only. I have a clear view of the field and will be able to eliminate approaching targets."

"And if they attack in numbers?" he asked, deliberately challenging her. "If they manage to circle the boulders and approach via our blindspots? If they set up camp and wait us out?"

He knew all of these things had already occurred to her, could see it in the grim set of her mouth, the hardness of her eyes. When she didn't immediately reply, he let out a slow breath and reached into the medkit for another protein bar, unwrapping it and handing over half. For another few moments there was silence, each slowly chewing their meager lunch, until finally he voiced what they were both thinking.

"You left out option three."

"Weller—" she began sharply, but he cut her off.

"The top of these boulders is the best vantage point for hundreds of yards, I know you know that as well as I do. Hell, probably better than I do, because you never miss a single detail of your surroundings, especially not in a hostile zone. You know that sending one of us ahead would draw out any combatants and open them up to fire from here, giving the greatest chance of survival at the lowest cost. It's the most logical choice, and you know it, Briggs."

He could feel the stiffness in her body beside his, could feel that his deliberate allusion to logic had had its intended effect, fresh anger radiating from her like the desert heat that surrounded them.

"Fine," she growled, unhooking the rifle strap from her shoulder without looking at him. "Give me the machete and I'll go. You can cover me."

"You must think I'm simple, Briggs," he said bluntly, reaching out and dropping the strap back over her head. "The squad's best sharpshooter will be the one providing cover, and that's not me. Plus, your leg is a liability. I can move faster than you can."

She didn't outwardly react, but he could see the hard set of her jaw, could sense the arguments forming on her tongue, and spoke first. "You will remain at this location and provide cover until I deem the threat to be passed. That is an order, Corporal."

Ignoring the sudden fury on her face, he pulled out the canteen and had a last, measured swallow before tucking it safely back into the kit and placing the whole lot in front of her.

"The medkit will stay with you, too. No point risking the supplies falling into enemy hands," he said, both of them fully aware that he was referring to his own possible death. "Now go. I'll help you climb to the top."

Briggs didn't move. She remained still as the boulders around her, blocking his exit into the open, her gun still up and ready.

With a small, inward sigh, he shifted awkwardly in the small space until he was kneeling beside her, head bowed to avoid the low ceiling, her shoulder almost brushing his chest as he quietly spoke her name.

If possible, she had gone even more still, and he wondered if she had actually stopped breathing. When her eyes turned at last from the terrain that stretched out before them, her gaze met and held his, their faces barely a handful of inches apart.

Now it was his turn not to breathe. Her eyes bored into his with an intensity that was entirely different from the one he was used to, the ever-present anger and determination now joined by something else, something that struck more deeply at his core than her hatred ever had.

"If you die, I'll fucking kill you, Weller," she said, her voice low and severe, not a trace of joking in her tone. "Give me a sixty second lead, then go. Move fast and stay low."

With that, she broke the eye contact that had held him bound, turning from him and exiting their shelter in one smooth motion, slinging the medkit and rifle onto her back as she disappeared from view, leaving him alone.

A quarter of her allotted sixty seconds had already passed before he fully recovered himself, and he gave his head a shake to regain his focus before doing a quick check of his weapons, listening all the while for gunfire. The minute ticked over in nothing but silence, however, and at its end he took a deep, slow breath— then swiftly turned and dropped to the ground below, his life once more solely in her hands.

And then, he began to run.

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_Oooh, for all her big talk, Remi sure seems worried about Weller's safety... :P_

_Also there's probably a better term for the weapon than 'machete' but it was the best I could come up with haha._

_As always, thanks for reading! And g__et ready for a bit of action next chapter! _


	5. Chapter 5

_Welcome back, and thank you all for the lovely comments. They make me so excited to keep sharing this story with you! And for once I'm actually even slightly on the early side with posting, but don't get used to it haha..._

_Warning, more violence ahead._

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She heard them before she saw them.

They made no attempt to conceal their approach, the excited shouts and thundering of hooves all but shattering the tense silence that had reigned in the few minutes since Weller had moved into the open. He clearly heard them too, his tall frame darting quickly behind a jagged boulder as the first rider raced into view around a rocky hillside several hundred yards off.

Another rider followed, then another, and she stared intently through the rifle's scope, counting bodies and weapons. Twelve horses, eleven men, eight rifles, multiple blades. No obvious handguns.

All headed straight for Weller.

They were still a hundred yards from being in her rifle's 550 yard range when Weller made his move, dashing from his cover at the very extremity of her range to a pile of rocks that he'd only recently passed, his timing as perfect as if he'd been raised with the very same training she had.

All the while that she'd been keeping lookout for their enemies, she'd watched from the corner of her eye as he'd planned his route, moving through the terrain with the measured swiftness of a hunter.

Now, he'd sprung his trap, the triumphant whoops and increased speed of the oncoming riders proving they had no idea that their 'easy prey' was in fact drawing them ever closer to the true predator, their danger rendered invisible by Weller's distraction and the rocky camouflage she'd carefully arranged around herself.

But even as the first shots started to rain down around Weller, each sounding like thunder in her ears, she waited.

Shooting from horseback, with inferior rifles and likely little to no training, their chances of hitting anyone— let alone an elite Orion soldier— were, at this distance, next to nothing. In any other circumstances, and with anyone else out there, she'd currently be feeling nothing but a cold, detached focus— and, much deeper down, the tiny, primal fire that was the thrill of the hunt.

Only it wasn't just anyone out there.

It was Weller.

Weller, who trusted her without question, who put his life in her hands like it was the safest place it could ever be.

Now, it was up to her to prove him right.

Steadying her heartbeat, she continued to wait, watching the gap closing between Weller and his pursuers as he raced to the next patch of cover. Even at their closer distance, not a single shot found its target— and for a half-second she allowed herself to feel the faint ripple of relief that went through her, then immediately shut it out once more, every inch of her filling with a fierce, deadly satisfaction as the riders at last crossed the invisible line she had drawn in her head.

They were hers now, and she was going to tear them to pieces.

Her first shot tore through the heart of one of the riflemen, throwing his comrades into complete chaos, his horse rearing as he fell from the saddle. He hadn't even hit the ground yet when the second died, his gun spraying bullets as his body seized, taking a brother down with him and injuring the closest horse, which dropped instantly, trapping it's owner's leg. He had no gun so she let him live for now, fixing her sights instead on the least frenzied of the group, an older rifleman who had his gun up and was searching, searching— he found her just as her bullet found his brain, his eyes narrowing hatefully a split second before they widened in death.

She had already moved on, picking her next target and pulling the trigger— but his horse moved at that exact moment, causing her bullet to tear through his shoulder instead of his chest, and she bit back a violent curse, making a split second judgment call as she turned her gun instead on one of the other riflemen, trusting that he would be too injured to provide an immediate threat.

Her new target died with a swiftness that almost made up for her mistake, his horse bolting with his corpse atop it.

A tally of her remaining bullets didn't please her; she'd started the day with a full round of thirty, and was now down by six, with six hostiles remaining, four of whom had guns. The three uninjured riflemen were now firing randomly at every bit of cover which might conceal her location, while the one whom she'd shot through the shoulder was attempting to escape along with one of the machete-wielding hostiles. She shot one of the fleeing pair through the spine, then ignored a lucky shot that threw up a small explosion of stone a matter of inches from her face as she put a bullet right between the shoulder blades of the other, catching him only a matter of yards before he exceeded her rifle's range.

The last three riflemen had figured out her rough position now, and dust and rock fragments showered her as they opened fire on the boulders around her. Gritting her teeth, she focused through it, dropping one target just as Weller leapt out from his cover, hurling his stolen machete at the remaining pair with all his strength. It skittered harmlessly to a stop by the hooves of one of their horses, but it was enough to distract their attention for a moment— and a moment was all she needed. Both were dead in seconds, the echo of gunfire drowned out by the staccato of racing hooves as their horses bolted.

Only there was one horse racing in the opposite direction from the rest, and now she saw through eyes half-blind with sweat and grit that one of the gunless men had dragged the trapped man free of his dead mount, and now both were astride the same horse, riding hard.

Straight at Weller.

One had taken a rifle from one of her early kills, and she put him down first, scarcely a handful of wildly-shot bullets leaving his gun before he hit the ground.

But in the time it had taken her to dispatch him, the rider was almost atop Weller, his long blade outstretched— and she swiftly loosed a shot that caught him in the gut, his body pitching off the horse's back and into the dirt only a few feet from where Weller had landed after the desperate, last-second dive which had saved him from being either trampled or decapitated. Watching through her scope, she saw him drag himself to his feet, chest heaving and covered in dirt and blood, his steps a fraction unsteady as he stumbled over to the wounded man, finishing him cleanly with a single thrust of his K-Bar into his heart.

Her own heart was racing now as she swiftly assessed the battlefield, searching for any overlooked threats. But she saw nothing other than a dozen corpses and one terrified horse, snorting and kicking as it tried to free itself from the tangled reins which tethered it to the body of the horse killed by friendly fire.

Shaking off the rocks and dust that covered her, she swiftly rose, slinging the medkit and rifle across her back as she clambered her way back down to the ground, her ankles jarring painfully as she came in contact with the hard-packed dirt. She kept her gun up and eyes wide open as she covered the few hundred yards of ground between her and the scattered collection of bodies, reaching them just as Weller had freed the horse, stroking its neck and speaking to it in a low, soothing tone.

Though she'd never admit it, the sound of his voice had a similar effect on her, the tension in her muscles easing just slightly as she looked him over.

"You okay?" she asked, hanging back a little so as to not spook the horse. Or maybe it was because she _wanted_ to move closer, to assure herself that he truly was fine, and that was a weakness she couldn't allow.

"Yeah," he said quietly, shifting his hand to the horse's bridle as he cautiously hooked the reins back over its neck. "You?"

"Fine," she replied, and he looked up from the horse with a small, crooked smile that almost started to have some kind of effect on her, but it faded before it could take hold, his expression turning grim.

"Your cheek," he murmured, and she instinctively raised a hand to her left cheekbone, where a sliver of rock kicked up by a bullet had nicked her.

"It's nothing," she answered curtly, dropping her hand. "I'm good, Weller."

Either believing her or understanding that any sign of concern from him was unwelcome to her, he changed the subject.

"I'd say better than good," he said, gently encouraging the horse to step over the bodies and weapons to approach her. At her puzzled look, he went on, "I knew you were the best shot in the squad, but jesus, Briggs. Eleven mounted, moving targets, from over 300 yards with an M4 while under return fire? Most elite snipers couldn't do that."

"I missed two kill shots," was her only reply, because that was the only fact that mattered. If this had been one of Shepherd's exercises, she would have been punished for a week for that kind of mistake. And in this situation it was an even greater crime, because her failure could have— and nearly had— cost Weller his life.

He seemed not to know what to say to that, looking at her oddly for a moment before saying eventually, "What's our status with ammo now?"

"Thirteen down, seventeen remaining," she reported immediately. "I'll collect one of the enemy rifles and a supply of ammo before we move on. And I'll find whatever of their clothing is least damaged, too. Your fatigues are barely more than scraps."

"Alright, how about you take those over there and I'll take these," he suggested, gesturing towards the fallen militants. "Collect all ammo into a pile by that squareish rock. I'm sure most provisions were in saddlebags, but any food or water can go in another pile here."

With a nod, she moved towards the bodies he'd indicated, searching them with a practiced ease, accomplishing the task much faster than Weller, who was hampered by the still-nervous horse that he was gently leading along. Depositing her finds into their respective piles, she went over to join him, careful to approach the horse from a very visible angle, not trusting it not to kick out at either of them.

Weller was still crouched by one of the corpses, and as she drew near, she realized he was speaking, the words leaving his mouth in a soft, lilting murmur. Curious, she leaned in slightly to listen, but straightened immediately as he looked up at her.

"I've already checked Ed's saddlebags, in case you were wondering. There's just a roll of canvas that I think is for a tent, and a little bedding," he said, rising to his feet with a couple of spare mags in his hands.

"Ed?"

"It was the first horse-related name I thought of," he answered with a shrug. "Well, second, but Black Beauty seemed a bit long. Plus, he's brown."

She frowned at him. "How is Ed a horse name?"

"You know, like Mr Ed? The talking—" seeing her deepening confusion, he cut himself off. "Nope, you don't know. Jeez, Briggs. I thought I had a crappy childhood, but everything I learn about yours just makes me sad."

Anger flared, sudden and sharp. "Keep your fucking pity, Weller," she snapped. "I don't need it."

"Hey," he said, holding up the hand that was free of the reins in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry. I just meant— never mind. I'm going to bring Ed over, can you share the supplies between his saddlebags and the medkit?"

Turning away without a word, she ignored the faint sigh she heard behind her, then collected the ammo and other supplies, distributing them as logically as she could. Weller stood quietly while she worked, murmuring to the horse now and then and getting it used to his touch. When she was finished, he silently accepted the rifle from her while she slung one of the scavenged rifles over her shoulder. An unfamiliar, lower grade gun would be no disadvantage to her, but it would to Weller, and she wasn't going to risk either of their safety by taking the chance.

Apparently having decided it was safe to speak again, he cleared his throat. "So, I'm assuming you can ride."

She shot him a look. "Why would you assume that?"

"Because you can do everything else," he said simply. "Are you saying you _can't_ ride?"

"I can ride," she grumbled. "Can you?"

"Barely," he answered. "I like horses, but my riding is definitely only at beginner level. So I guess you'll be steering."

That halted her. "What?"

"Come on, Briggs," he said, clearly surprised. "Our progress will be much quicker and easier on the horse. A camel would have been better able to carry both of us long distance, but I'll take what I can get."

Taking no notice of her reaction, he held out a hand for the medkit. "Here, give me the kit. If you need a restroom stop, now's the time, because once we're on the horse we're not stopping for a long time."

Unable to argue with his logic, she handed over the medkit and stalked off behind a boulder. When she emerged a minute later, he was facing away from her, seemingly keeping a sharp eye on every bit of their surroundings except the one that would intrude on her privacy. Rolling her eyes, she joined him, and he held out the reins to her.

"Give me a second to change," he said, and she told herself she wasn't disappointed to find out that 'changing' merely entailed picking up the long, pale, tunic-like garment she'd stripped from one of the bodies and pulling it over the top of his tattered fatigues. Then he looked around for a moment before stooping and grabbing a head covering for each of them, providing some much-welcomed protection from the sun.

With that done, she expected them to get moving, but he paused before her, giving her a strange look.

"I know we don't have much time, Briggs, but I just need another minute. I'll be right back."

Then, leaving her there holding the horse, he quickly moved to crouch beside the nearest body, one of the ones she had already searched. She was about to remind him of that when she heard him start to speak softly, a brief, melodic string of sounds that she recognized as a local prayer, spoken in Pashto. Moving from body to body, he looked at each man's face as he repeated the words, and she realized she'd already witnessed him doing the same for those he'd searched earlier.

She expected to feel annoyance or disdain for the wasted time or the risk of prolonging their presence in the open, but she found only a reluctantly growing feeling of respect, and something else even more unfamiliar— a deep, insidious feeling of shame, creeping through her veins like a bitter poison. She'd killed these men without a second thought, had seen them only as threats to be eliminated, but clearly Weller felt differently, his compassion not constrained by something as apparently superficial as what side someone fought for.

What came so naturally to him had always been a challenge for her, the concrete correlation of kindness with weakness being one of the very foundations of the upbringing she'd been given. She'd never been one for deliberate cruelty— not like Shepherd— but she _was_ cold, so outwardly unfeeling as to appear completely heartless to most. Only Roman had ever seen deeper, had known the truth of what lay beneath.

Though as Weller rose and walked back to join her, eyes meeting and holding hers, it occurred to her that maybe Roman wasn't the only one.

#########

Honestly, she kept surprising him.

He'd expected some kind of reaction to his makeshift last rites, maybe not an outright reprimand or insult, but at least some vaguely disapproving comment about keeping them out in the open for nothing— but instead she'd simply handed the reins back to him without a word, then mounted the horse with an ease and grace that should have been impossible for someone with her injuries.

He was still staring when she held out her hand, and he automatically put the reins in it, even more surprised to see the faintest twitch of her lips as she switched the reins to her other hand and reached out again, more insistently this time.

"Your hand, Weller. If you're still planning on getting on this horse, you're going to have to give me your hand."

"Right, right," he said hastily, shooting a quick glance at Ed, who was now standing placidly, having calmed under his touch. Or maybe, under _her_ touch— he'd caught a glimpse of her softly stroking his nose while she'd waited for him to finish his prayers. Either way, he didn't seem bothered, and was certainly large and broad enough to accommodate two.

Which was why Weller had suggested it in the first place. Right.

Realizing he still hadn't given her his hand, he reached up and closed his fingers around hers, moving close to Ed's side and wishing futilely for a western saddle with stirrups and firm leather to grip onto. His eyes fell on a decent sized rock nearby, and he looked up at her.

"Bring him over here, it'll be easier."

Unthinkingly, he tugged on her hand, and she nudged the horse in response, Ed meekly following him to the chosen rock. It wasn't until they reached it that he realized he'd never let go of her hand, and that she'd simply allowed it, steering the horse with her knees rather than pulling away to take the reins.

Having no idea what to do with that information, he simply stepped up onto the rock and then swung a leg carefully over Ed's back, settling his weight down slowly in case he were to panic and bolt. But he just stood there, clearly well under Briggs' control, so Weller relaxed, finally letting go of her hand and shifting a little to find a comfortable position. The movement brought his thighs to rest against hers, her shoulderblades almost brushing his chest, and he froze awkwardly for a moment before reluctantly accepting that there was literally no way to keep them from sliding together.

Briggs herself didn't even seem to notice, but of course she didn't; she'd spooned him last night without a second thought, as if physical intimacy didn't even register with her. As if confirming his thoughts, she spoke without looking back.

"You're going to need to hold on, Weller. Arms around the waist is fine, just watch the rifle."

Feeling like an incredibly stupid, painfully shy teenage boy, he curled one arm around her waist, taking care not to knock the rifle that she had slung across her front. His other hand he put on his own thigh, allowing him to reach quickly for his weapon or their provisions. He started to let out a sigh at the image of how the next several hours were going to pass, then immediately stopped himself, realizing he was breathing directly onto her neck.

"You ready?" she asked, interrupting his discomfort.

"Yeah. Let's move."

With a faint clicking sound and a subtle shift of her knees, she directed Ed to the southwest, and at last they were on their way again. Their skirmish with the scouting party had cost them some time, but Ed would easily make up for it. And not only would he save them time, but he would save Briggs the pain he'd seen her suffering the day before, when the toll of so many hours of walking had really started to show.

Her leg was bad enough, but he knew she had to have a couple of broken ribs too, even if she hadn't told him as much. She'd hidden it well, but he knew the signs, which was part of the reason that he would be exceedingly careful with the placement of his arm around her waist.

She'd clearly experienced a lot of pain in her life, of every imaginable kind it seemed, but he'd do his best to ensure that none of it ever came from him.

As time passed and he got used to the movement, the glare of the sun, the additional heat of his extra layer and the proximity of their bodies, the ride actually started to become almost…. nice. Which was definitely a weird sensation to be experiencing in the middle of a blistering desert in hostile territory, only hours after taking part in the deaths of a dozen men and barely a day after losing almost his entire squad, and all while undertaking a long and difficult journey to reach a place from which there may not actually be any chance of safe evac.

And yet despite all that, he was feeling pretty damn good right now.

He felt even better when the sun began to lower and the temperature slowly went with it, finally giving some relief from the baking heat. But as nice as it was, he was well aware that the temperature would drop below freezing before too long, and unlike last night, the terrain around them showed no sign of providing any natural shelter beyond a few scattered rocks here and there. As the moon started to rise, he started to think about bringing the topic up with Briggs, but decided to wait, certain that she would already have a plan.

And she did; before too long, she turned them off course, aiming for a fairly narrow valley-like gap formed between two sandy hills. It wasn't much in terms of cover, but it would shield them from view in at least two directions, which was better than their current position out in the open.

When they reached it, she halted the tiring Ed, then looked back at him for the first time in hours.

"Get down and stay here. I'll go a little further and ensure it's clear."

Knowing better than to argue, he slipped from Ed's back, imagining a sigh of relief escaping the poor creature's mouth. For a second Briggs paused, glancing down at him, but seemed to change her mind about speaking, and a moment later she and Ed were moving away at a gentle trot, leaving him alone.

For a moment he just stood in the opening of the valley, gazing out at the expanse of desert before him and the multitudes of stars that were winking into existence above his head, then he let out a breath and moved a few paces around the curve of the hill, making use of the rare moment of solitude to relieve himself. Then, he filled in his makeshift latrine with sand and returned to the shelter of the valley, and was just inspecting the sloped sides of the hills when he heard faint hoofbeats approaching.

Squinting in the evening dimness, he saw Briggs and Ed returning, and when she was only a few yards away she halted and slipped gracefully off the horse, turning to him without a hint of the bowleggedness he'd felt after their journey.

"Come on," she said without preamble, "There's a slight hollow in the hill just up ahead that we should be able to use for shelter."

Then, she turned and started leading the way, clearly aware that he would be right behind. It was only another minute before they reached the spot she meant, still much more exposed than their cave had been, but certainly better than anything else around. The hollow she'd found was barely more than a shallow indent in the side of the hill, but he could work with it.

Pulling out the roll of canvas from Ed's saddlebag, he unfurled it, then looked again at the hollow before nodding in approval.

"Briggs, I need your knives, and any rocks of five to ten pounds that you can gather."

To his mild surprise, she asked no questions, only pulled out her K-Bar and three smaller, well-concealed knives and put them on the ground before turning away in search of rocks. As for himself, he found a rock nearby that looked like it probably weighed about 50 pounds, and drew Ed over to it, untying one end of the rope that served as his reins and then lifting the rock long enough to place the other end under it. It wasn't much, but it was better than letting him roam free, and it seemed likely that if nothing spooked him, he'd still be right there in the morning.

Reminding himself to get some water for Ed as soon as he was done with their shelter, Weller grabbed a flat rock and started carefully digging into the hollow, lengthening it as well as deepening it, until he could lie down in it at almost full stretch. Then, he gathered Briggs' knives and the canvas, impaling the long edge of the canvas into the hillside just above the hollow, ensuring to leave enough space that he wouldn't collapse the dirt underneath. He had it arranged over the hollow in a crude roof/wall when Briggs returned with an armful of rocks, and he placed those atop the edges of the canvas, further weighing it down and keeping it in place.

Crouching, Briggs carefully lifted the lower corner of the canvas, seeing the now enclosed space he'd created.

"Not bad, Weller," she said, the words feeling like high praise. Which, from her, they pretty much were.

Putting canvas flap back down, she moved over to Ed, presumably getting the few meager bits of bedding from the saddlebags, and he tinkered a little bit more with the securements on their shelter before deciding he was satisfied. Standing, he looked around for her, immediately finding her still over with Ed, his saddleblankets on the ground and her fingers combing firmly over his sweaty hide, and at once Weller remembered all he'd ever learned about horse grooming, which wasn't much beyond what she was doing right now.

Walking over to join her, he said, "Currying, right? Want me to take the other side?"

"No, I've got it," she answered, and for a moment he felt a trace of rejection before she added, "Could you get the foil blanket and make a kind of bowl out of it? It should work for a water trough."

"On it," he said, fetching it out of the medkit and fashioning it into a shape that should vaguely hold water. Putting it before Ed and weighing it down with a couple of small rocks, he poured some of the water from one of the canteens they'd scavenged into it, then waited while Ed lowered his head and sniffed at it, pulling back a couple of times in alarm as the foil crinkled or moved in the light breeze. He was just considering covering it in a thin layer of sand to disguise it when Ed apparently got over his initial misgivings, lowering his head and drinking deeply.

Pleased, Weller petted his neck, then moved to face Briggs over his back.

"He's a good horse, don't you think?" he said, aware that it was a terrible opener and not caring, just wanting to hear her voice, to listen to her talk about anything, to learn just a little more about who she was and how she thought.

Her fingers paused in their work for a second, her eyes fixing on his like she wasn't sure what to make of him. For a moment he was disappointed, thinking that he had somehow reverted her back to her natural tendency towards suspicion— which, incredibly, had almost entirely disappeared towards him in the last 24 hours or so— but then she gave a reply that was almost as unexpected as the tiny spark of amusement in her eyes.

"You know she's a mare, right?"

For a moment he was too surprised to do anything but stare at her, and then he felt the laughter rising up, his shoulders shaking and chest wounds burning with pain as he fought to keep it contained, to keep it from bursting out of his mouth and into the silent stillness of the desert.

It was the best that he had felt since the crash— hell, since long before that. But better yet was the small, involuntary smile that curved Briggs' lips, one she quickly hid, her mouth immediately pressing into a flat, emotionless line. But not fast enough; he'd seen it. Even in the dark, he'd seen it, and now he knew that it could exist, he wanted to see it again and again and again. Putting a bracing hand on Ed's back, he turned his grinning face to the sky and blew out a long breath, slowly regaining control of himself.

When he looked back at her, her face wore a carefully neutral expression, her fingers still combing steadily.

"I guess Edwina's not a bad name," he said simply, and was rewarded by the faintest twitch of her lips, the studious way she focused on her task rather than looking at his face. Deciding to go out on top, he pulled out the couple of small blankets from the saddlebags on the ground, then stepped back.

"I'm going to set up the bedding. Let me know if you need anything."

Her nod was her only reply, so he turned to his task, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face once more as he went.

Reaching the shelter, he unfolded the paltry blankets, laying one on the floor of the shelter to combat the hard dirt and small spiky stones that he hadn't been able to brush away. Then he grabbed the medkit and pulled out a canteen and a protein bar before stashing the bag in the far corner of the shelter, where it would be out of the way.

The guns posed another problem, but they could hardly leave them outside the shelter, where they would be useless at best and a danger at worst. Mentally measuring the hollow again, he figured that it would be just large enough to accommodate both of them plus weapons, but it was going to be _very_ cozy.

Honestly, he wasn't sure whether that fact filled him with more dread or delight.

With everything as comfortable as he could make it, he sat and leaned back against the hillside, gazing up at the stars.

Orion glowed brightest of all.

#########

* * *

_That's pretty much all of the violence out of the way now, though there's still plenty of danger to come..._

_ Also, __I'm so happy that you guys have finally met Ed. I love Ed. _

_As always, thanks for reading, and I would love to hear your thoughts!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello again! Things kept happening to delay me working on this chapter (including a literal train crash that I got called to attend, but don't worry, no one was injured) but here it finally is! _

_Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

#########

Night was falling quickly.

When Remi was satisfied that Ed– _Edwina_– was taken care of, she put the saddle blankets back over her and picked up the foil blanket, tipping out the last few drops and flattening it out again as quietly as she could. With a last gentle stroke of the horse's neck, she walked the few yards back to their shelter, the glow of the moon revealing Weller's tall form stretched out against the slope of the hill, staring up at the sky.

Almost wishing she knew what was going on in his head, she sat beside him, and without looking at her he silently held out half of a protein bar. She noticed that his own half was still uneaten, and it was only once she'd taken her portion that he took his first bite, his eyes on the sky.

It was at least another minute before he spoke, which for Weller was something of a rarity– or at least, for the Weller she'd known since the crash. The Weller of before had barely spoken to her; he'd tried to make conversation a few times in that first week she'd joined the squadron, but she'd shut him out just like she did with everyone else, and he soon stopped trying.

By the end of that first week, they had all come to dislike her to varying degrees, which had suited her just fine. After all, that was the entire point; she was here to fight a war, not make friends.

Which pretty much summed up her life, really.

All through the months they'd worked together, she'd thought Weller disliked her too– not with the animosity of a wounded ego like the rest of them, but more like the quiet disappointment that a saint might show a sinner, his solemn gaze following her wherever she went.

Now, she knew better. Whatever it was that she'd seen in his eyes all that time, it hadn't been judgment or disapproval, and certainly not dislike. That he liked her was now unquestionable; as to just how much, she still wasn't sure.

There _was_ something she was sure of, though: she didn't often misjudge people, in fact almost never did, but she had misjudged him.

"See how bright Orion is?" he asked thoughtfully, pulling her out of her thoughts and back to the moment. "I feel like it's sending us a message, but I can't decide what it is."

To anyone else, she would have given a sarcastic reply, but instead she glanced upwards, and said what she knew he would most like to hear. "Maybe it means that rescue is on the way, and they're out there looking for us right now."

"Wow, Briggs, I'm impressed. That was positively optimistic of you," he told her, his reaction to her words so genuinely pleased that she couldn't regret speaking them.

"You must be contagious," she said with mock disgust, and for the second time in ten minutes he had to forcibly hold back his laughter, his chest shuddering with the effort. She was used to having power over others, to being able to evoke an entire range of involuntary actions and responses, but this was definitely a new one.

And she found she liked it.

When he'd controlled himself, he asked, "Do you know any of the others?"

Still distracted, she frowned down at him. "Other what?"

"Constellations," he replied, gesturing vaguely at the glittering sky above them, his voice turning almost wistful. "You see a few in Pennsylvania, but nothing so beautiful as this. And it's not just the stars, either. All the most beautiful things I've seen in my life, I've seen over here."

For a moment she paused, looking at him looking at the stars.

"I know most of them," she said, the admission surprising even herself.

He propped himself up a little, head turning to look up at her with wide eyes. "Really?"

Uncomfortable with the attention, she looked away, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug. "I learned them when I was young. For navigation."

It was mostly true; fifteen of the eighty-eight named constellations were used for navigation, and they were required learning in Shepherd's curriculum. The rest... well, she'd always liked stars, and the nights she'd spent staring up at them from the roof of the compound were some of the few moments of peace she ever got.

"Right. Of course you did," he responded, his voice wry.

Annoyed, she started to get up, but his hand was suddenly on her forearm, halting her.

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to tease," he said quickly, his words sincere. "Would you show me some? Even just a couple?"

Slowly settling back down– she'd humor him this once, but one more comment like that from him and she was done– she looked again at Orion, then went for the next logical choice.

"That one is Canis Major," she began, pointing to the cluster below and a little to the left of Orion.

"Ah, Big Dog," he said knowingly, then bit back a laugh at her look. "Sorry, go on."

"Canis Major is said to represent the large dog following the hunter Orion," she told him, pulling from deep in her memory. "And above and to the left of it is Canis Minor, Orion's smaller dog."

That seemed to particularly pique his interest. "Where?"

"There," she said, pointing, the small collection of stars standing out as clearly to her as if they were the only ones in the sky.

He frowned. "I'm sorry, Briggs, I'm not seeing it. Where is it?"

He wasn't messing with her; she could hear in his voice that the question was genuine, that he truly wanted to see what she was trying to show him.

Which was the only reason why she did what she did.

Ignoring the growing awareness of their proximity, she lay down onto her back beside him, then pointed again, allowing him to follow the line of her finger to the bright glow of Procyon, Canis Minor's dominant star.

"There," she repeated, and felt their shoulders brush as he leaned his head a little towards hers, squinting at the sky.

"There? So that one and that one are literally Orion's dogs? Man, when were you gonna tell me they named constellations after us, Briggs?"

He'd tried to make it a joke, but she heard the faint bitterness that lay beneath it, the pain that he'd always kept carefully hidden. Feeling the sudden, irrational need to dispel it, she spoke without thinking.

"That's one myth about them. But another says that Canis Minor is actually the Teumessian fox, a fox so quick and clever it was destined never to be caught– except by the great dog Laelaps, which is the other name for Canis Major."

Belatedly realizing how that might have sounded, she bit her lip, cursing herself. For a long moment he was silent beside her, then finally turned to look at her. She could feel his eyes on her face, could feel him waiting for her to look at him.

She knew she should get up, should move away, but that would feel too much like surrender, like a concession that there was actually something passing between them, and she wouldn't allow it. So instead she turned her head and met his gaze squarely, their faces only inches apart.

"Thanks, Briggs," he murmured, eyes never leaving hers. "I like that version better."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't, because the moment the dog catches the fox they both get turned to stone and put up in the sky for the rest of time," she retorted, her irritation rising at warmth in his voice, the soft way he was looking at her. "That's enough stargazing. I'm going to sleep."

Jaw clenched, she grabbed her rifle from beside her and rose briskly to her feet, determinedly concealing the pain that shot through her thigh and her ribs as she did so. He didn't say a word as she stalked past him, and in her last fleeting glimpse of him before the canvas separated them, he was still lying as unmoving as stone, staring at the sky.

Scowling into the total darkness of their hollow, she settled herself in through a combination of touch and spatial memory, finding the medkit down by her feet and placing her rifle beside it, leaning it against the earthen wall with the barrel pointed directly into dirt. She'd be able to grab it and utilize it in seconds if needed, but the risk of accidental fire was safely managed. With her own weapon it would never even be a concern, but with a poorly maintained, unfamiliar weapon it could not be dismissed as a possibility, and the last thing either of them needed was another injury, especially one that she could have prevented.

Settling on her side with her back to the canvas flap, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep– but for once her body defied her, remaining ready and alert. Her mind was no less of a problem, its attention still fixed on that conversation, and on all the ways that he managed to infuriate her.

It did not think about the expression she'd seen in his eyes in that moment, though, or what he might have seen in hers.

He was only a few more minutes in joining her, but she had already started to shiver, not even the coffin-like confines of their shelter managing to protect her from the rapidly falling temperature. She heard his quiet scuffling sounds as he tried to crawl into the shelter without disturbing her, clearly assuming her already asleep.

Which, she figured, was the only reason he was brave enough to spread the foil blanket over her. Fumbling a little in the pitch blackness, his fingers accidentally brushed her neck, and she couldn't control her flinch, or the fresh goosebumps that broke out across her skin.

"Jesus, Briggs," he whispered sharply. "Your skin is like ice."

If her skin was icy, her voice was even colder. "I'm fine."

"Uh, I'm–" he hesitated for a second, clearly uncertain, then drew a breath and pressed on. "I'm– I'm gonna move closer, alright?"

She felt him shift against the dirt, and then his chest was at her back, brushing against her with every inhalation, his thighs just barely touching hers. It was no closer than they'd been on the horse today, in fact it was a fraction less, yet it felt decidedly more intimate than that had felt.

And that had already felt far more intimate than she was comfortable with.

Seemingly judging himself safe for the moment, he carefully tugged on the foil blanket until it was mostly covering them both– though, she suspected, covering her significantly more than him– then drew the other frayed blanket over the top.

She hadn't moved since he'd spoken, every muscle tense, every nerve hyperalert. Reminding herself that she'd mocked him only the night before for having basically the exact same reaction she'd just had, she forced herself to relax, letting her body settle against his.

Then, with a small sound of disgust– at him or herself, she wasn't quite sure– she reached back and found his arm where it lay stiffly atop his side, and drew it around her waist, her reasons purely practical. Clearly caught off guard, Weller started slightly, the movement momentarily increasing their contact still further, before he quickly recovered himself, his tension easing.

Letting out a slow breath, she let her own tension gradually drain away.

And then, with Weller between her and the world, she simply closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

#########

Waking up was an experience.

His first groggy instinct was to press closer into the supple warmth of her body, to turn his face into the softness of her hair and drift back into his pleasant dreams.

The horrified panic followed half a second later, and it was only a lifetime of strict physical control that kept him from scuttling away from her like a terrified crab, that long-ingrained training making him go deathly still instead, giving him a moment to assess the level of danger he was in.

Which led to his next realization, one that hit him harder than either that had preceded it.

Briggs was still asleep.

The glow of his watch confirmed it was almost 0600, and yet Remi Crack-of-Dawn Briggs was _still_ _asleep_. She was infamous in the squad for never sleeping past 0430, regardless of what time they'd hit their bunks, regardless of if they were on duty or R&R. The guys joked that it was because she was more machine than human, so she didn't need to sleep like they did.

Well, she'd never seemed more human than right now, with her long hair loose of its usual bun, her expression softened in sleep, her muscles devoid of their usual coiled tension. The next moment only added to his stunned wonderment, as she shifted unconsciously, closing the tiny gap he'd created between them, her body molding to his once more.

Well, shit.

Hardly daring to breathe, Weller kept his upper body carefully still, shifting his hips backward by tiny increments, just far enough to prevent a potential source of extreme awkwardness.

Not that his situation wasn't already awkward enough: his choices consisted of waking her, an action which could trigger her overactive fight response and cause her to murder him before she was even fully conscious; or stay here and let her sleep, which could also result in her murdering him when she woke to find he'd deliberately allowed their physical contact to continue longer than was strictly necessary.

No, he was sure there was only one way of getting out of a situation that involved this much shared physical intimacy alive, and that was to not be conscious when she woke.

Reassuring himself that he had no other choice, he settled his head back down onto his bicep and closed his eyes, a faint smile touching his lips before he slipped back into sleep.

He came alert instantly at the sound of his name, his body jerking slightly, his eyes opening to find he could now see, the dim light of sunrise creeping steadily under the canvas.

"It's past 0630," Briggs said crisply, all business. "We need to move."

"Right," he said, immediately withdrawing his arm from around her and rolling to his other side, only remembering his gun when he found himself half-lying on it. Shifting it from underneath him, he awkwardly belly-crawled out from under the canvas, turning back and lifting the flap just slightly to tell her of his intention to go scout the area.

Receiving an affirmative, he immediately headed for the opening to the valley, his stride awkward as he subtly adjusted himself. Waking up entangled with Remi Briggs was proving to be hell on his body's responses, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that– if they managed to survive the day– they would reach the village by sometime in the mid-afternoon.

He certainly didn't think he could survive another night.

Like the previous morning, he focused on assessing their surroundings for any danger, and by the five minute mark he was assured the coast was clear– both in regards to their upcoming route and his own physical state– so he turned back, making sure to pause and give Edwina an apologetic scratch behind the ears.

Glancing over, he could see Briggs had already dismantled their shelter, the canvas once more in a neat roll and her knives likely returned to their respective hiding places. As he approached, she silently held out his K-Bar and a canteen, and he accepted both with thanks.

While he drank, she carried the bedding back over to Ed's saddlebags, storing both the canvas and blankets securely, then returned to his side to trade half a protein bar for the canteen, their movements now in a practiced pattern.

As they stood there chewing their breakfast, his eyes fell again on the sandy hollow that had been their shelter, the space somehow seeming both larger and smaller than it had felt last night.

"Surprised we slept so late," he ventured, hoping that the slight recklessness of provoking her might be canceled out by the carefully cultivated innocence in his tone.

"I'm not," she said enigmatically, then simply handed him the medkit, tapping one of the pockets. "Your dose is in there. Make sure you put it back in the same pocket when you're done."

Then, she simply turned and headed for the horse, leaving him staring after her for a moment. Shaking himself out of it, he quickly pulled out the syringe and jabbed it into his leg, managing to wince only slightly this time. Watching her do a final check of all the saddlebags, he recapped the needle and tucked it away, then hurried over to join her.

He was just about to offer to lift the large rock so she could pull the end of the reins free when she did it herself, lifting the edge of the 50-pound rock with one hand like it was nothing. She'd already replaced the rock and was facing away from him, tying the end of the rope back to Ed's bridle, when she suddenly spoke.

"You're staring, Weller."

"Right. Sorry," he said sheepishly, and managed to be silent for about three whole seconds before the words burst out of him. "You deliberately downplay your strength during training, don't you?"

For a moment she simply looked over her shoulder at him, as if deciding how to answer. When she spoke, he knew instinctively that it was nothing but the truth.

"I downplay everything."

"Why? Christ, Briggs, you were already too good for your rank. You should have been running the show this whole time, not taking orders like any other grunt."

"Because it pays to be underestimated," she answered frankly, her expression unreadable. "And because beating men in any field where they believe women to be inferior, let alone beating them in _every_ field, achieves nothing but unnecessary resentment and opposition. Letting men keep their egos keeps them out of my way."

Swinging herself easily up onto Ed's back, she shifted a little, then gathered the reins and nudged Ed forward, positioning her where Weller would be able to use the rock to mount.

But he was still distracted by what she'd said– and really, thinking of their former teammates, he could easily see her point. While pretty much any of them would be guaranteed to be envious of another man who could physically outmatch them in strength or skill, they would still respect him for it, even admire him. To be beaten by a woman, though? Even a woman like Remi Briggs? The whole squadron would have gone into complete meltdown.

And Briggs would have been the one to have to go.

Looking up at her, he met her eyes, and she must have seen some sign that he understood, that he was on her side, because the guardedness in her expression eased away a little, her eyes almost warm as she reached her hand out to him.

Taking it, he stepped up onto the rock and then swung into place behind her, his arm curling automatically around her waist, their bodies fitting together like it was how they were made to be.

"For the record," he began carefully, hoping she understood just how much he meant what he was about to say. "I've always known I was no match for you, Briggs. And even though I didn't realize just how true that was 'til just now, I've never had anything but respect for who you are and what you can do."

Well, that wasn't quite the truth. He'd had a hell of a lot more than respect. Admiration, awe, adoration...

"I know, Weller," she replied evenly, her eyes on the horizon as she directed Ed back towards open desert.

She knew _now_. But what about before? All those long months they'd lived, trained, and worked side by side, had she assumed he was just another sexist asshole, another two-faced guy who would turn on her the moment she stepped outside the neat box he'd put her in?

"Is that why you never talked to me? Because you thought I was like them?"

"No," she answered, and then was silent so long that he thought that was the end of it. But then she spoke again, her words making his heart leap.

"It was because I knew you weren't."

#########

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_So it was only when I started googling constellations for this chapter that I learned about Canis Major and Minor, and I literally could not believe my luck that they fit so perfectly with the kind of conversation that I wanted these two to have. Bless whatever long-dead people gave them their names and myths!_

_Also I hope everyone enjoyed the spooning haha_

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi guys! Thank you all for your awesome reviews on last chapter :)_

_Sorry I'm so late this week, I've had a lot going on so I foolishly left editing til the last minute, only to discover that the chapter needed more work than I'd realised (aka an extra 1200 words lol). Oops!_

_Hope you like it!_

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Something was up with Weller.

For over an hour, he'd been completely silent— not the tired but relatively companionable quiet of their ride yesterday, but a heavy, pensive silence that seemed to press in on her, needling its way under her skin. More than once, she told herself she was glad of it— that his questions and comments were nothing but an annoyance, and she was lucky not to have to humor him with more pointless conversation.

There was a part of her, though— one she wished _would_ be silent— that knew that that wasn't true.

"Christ, Weller, just say it," she finally burst out, unable to stand it any longer.

She felt him jump a little behind her, clearly startled. "What?"

"Whatever's got you thinking so hard back there. You're so tense you're even making the horse uneasy."

Not to mention herself.

For a moment he didn't answer, as if deliberating; then he seemed to come to a decision, letting out a breath that feathered warmly against her neck, forcing her to suppress a shiver.

"I was just thinking about what would come after this," he said slowly, his words carefully even. "After we make it to the village."

"We get access to communications gear and get evac'd," she answered promptly, her voice matter-of-fact, as if that was all the answer that was needed— though she already knew that wasn't what he'd meant.

"And after that?"

When she didn't reply, he went on, his arm tightening unconsciously around her waist as the words rushed out of him.

"You know how I said I was planning on joining the FBI? I have a contact in the New York Office who wants to fix the system too, and she and I have this... arrangement, kind of," he said, stumbling a little over that last part. For a split second her focus wavered, unable to keep herself from wondering exactly what kind of _arrangement _he might have with this nameless female agent— but she immediately pushed the thought away, forcibly tuning back in as Weller rambled on.

"And so anyway, with her backing me I'm almost guaranteed a place at Quantico, so the moment we get access to a phone, she's going to be my first call. Well, second, after my sister, but the important point is that I decided for sure that I'm not going back to Orion. I'm getting into the Bureau as soon as I can."

Following this profession, he fell silent again— but this time it was brief and expectant, waiting intently for her response.

So she gave it, keeping her eyes forward and her voice deliberately flat. "Sounds like you've got it all figured out."

"Not all," he disagreed quietly, then hesitated a moment before adding apprehensively, "What if you came with me, Briggs? Mayfair would back you too, if I told her that you wanted in. Not that you'd need any help, since Quantico would probably bend over backwards to have a recruit like you, but still it couldn't hurt."

For a second, she didn't react, her breath pausing somewhere in her lungs like it had forgotten which way to go. Since childhood, she'd been trained to anticipate every thought and action of those around her, to never be caught off guard. Obviously, she wasn't infallible, but she was about as close to it as it was possible to get, her skill rivaling even Shepherd's.

And then Weller had strolled into her life, looking every bit the picture of steadiness and predictability, and for five months he had stayed obediently in the neat mental box that it had taken her less than a minute to fit him into, never once straying outside the lines.

Until the chopper had crashed, and burst that box wide open.

Finally managing to reconnect her brain and her mouth, she pushed the words out, each one weighted with disbelief. "You want _me_ to join the FBI?"

"I do," he confirmed, his voice growing passionate. "Orion isn't worthy of you, Briggs. Things would be different at the FBI— you'd be able to use your skills to really make a difference, and our country needs that. It needs good people to fight for it, so it doesn't collapse under all the greed and corruption and political bullshit, and I really can't imagine anyone better to do that than you."

Her answering laugh was bitter, all sharp edges.

"Weller, you don't fucking know me at all."

"I know more than you think," he countered hotly. "I may not know anything about your life before Orion, other than the fact that you're probably a strong contender for the World's Shittiest Childhood award, but I know _you_."

"You only _think_ you do," she answered cuttingly, voice heavy with derision. It was the exact tone that had successfully driven people away her entire life, but beneath it there was also something else; a warning, a reminder that there was one threat in this desert he was overlooking.

"You only think I _don't_," he shot back, his defiance surprising her. "But whatever, Briggs. I don't want to spend hours stuck arguing with you on the back of a horse. Just think about the FBI offer, that's all I'm asking."

She didn't bother with a response, and he didn't really seem to expect one. Instead, he drew his arm away a little until it was barely touching her, his face turning away so that his stubbled chin no longer brushed against her hair. It was the closest to giving her space that their current situation allowed, but she was still too caught up in his offer to appreciate it.

In her head, his words repeated themselves over and over, a mocking loop. Her, join the FBI? The very idea was insane, not to mention utterly impossible. Even if she'd _wanted_ to join, they would never let her. The things she'd done...

But then again, she was certain that not even the FBI's most determined digging could ever find out about those. Shepherd had taught her too well.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't _completely_ impossible. Still, it was nonsensical, and he was deluded to think it could work. And even more deluded to think he knew her. He might know her better than most, but that was only because literally no one other than her family knew anything at all about her.

If he ever knew the real her, he would know that the only part of the FBI she belonged in was the holding cells.

Fortunately for both of them, he didn't try to press the subject further, and so another tense silence fell, each of them stewing in their own thoughts. Slowly, the minutes ticked by to the rhythm of the horse's soft hoofbeats, the sun inching higher above their heads.

An hour passed. Then two. And then, to both of their surprise, she spoke.

"What's her name? Your sister."

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she grimaced, wanting to take them back. It was a stupid question for a stupider olive branch, and she didn't even know why she offered it.

Then she heard the pleased surprise in his voice as he answered, and knew why.

Fucking hell.

"Sarah. She's my little sister. She lives in Portland with her son, Sawyer. He's the coolest little kid."

He gave the information quickly, like he was afraid she'd change her mind and cut him off. When she didn't, he took it as encouragement, his tone eager, his curiosity finally finding its opening. "What about you? Do you have siblings?"

Pain flared in her chest, sudden and unexpected. When she spoke, she could hear the hoarse edge to her voice, and swallowed hard.

"One. We haven't spoken since I enlisted."

At that, Weller seemed to deflate a little behind her, his words laced with a genuine sadness. "I'm sorry. That must be hard."

"It's not," she answered curtly, her shoulders stiff. "And fewer attachments means fewer distractions, fewer weaknesses. A true soldier thinks only of the mission, not those they've left behind."

The lesson had been drummed into her from childhood, and she recited it reflexively, the words a shield against him.

"You know you don't have to do that with me, right?" he asked suddenly, his tone somehow both gentle and firm. "I know you think everyone is always watching and waiting for any sign of a vulnerability they can exploit or attack, but I'm on your side, Briggs. You don't have to have your guard up all the time."

Surprise gave way to anger, burning hot and fast beneath her skin. She'd always known Weller was brave, but she'd never taken him for this stupid.

"Fascinating analysis, Dr Freud," she said acidly, furious at him for his presumptions and herself for inviting them. "Do me a favor, and keep any further insights or revelations to yourself from now on."

Seemingly realizing he'd pushed too far, he fell silent once more, his arm leaving its usual position at her waist to rest instead on his own thigh.

She told herself she didn't miss it.

The next couple of hours passed agonizingly slowly, their horse stumbling more and more over the increasingly rocky terrain, the rough sand giving way to layers of small, jagged stones as they started ascending to higher ground. Still, she urged the horse on, until a slip of loose stones nearly sent it to its knees, the abrupt movement lurching them both forwards so jarringly that she almost fell, prevented only by Weller's arms locking tightly around her waist and pulling her back against him.

Immediately righting herself, she guided the horse to a patch of flat ground, then halted it, taking a moment to stroke its shuddering neck, its breath coming in long, uneven gusts.

"Easy, girl," she murmured, then looked over her shoulder at Weller for the first time since they'd mounted hours before. "We need to turn her loose. Even without us on her, she's not going to be able to get far in this kind of terrain. It's only going to get steeper and slipperier, and we have no idea what it's going to be like on the other side. Better to let her go now where she can still make it back down without breaking a leg."

"Understood," he answered briskly, then immediately drew his arm from her waist as he carefully dismounted. He stepped back slightly, hand lifting as if to help her down, but seemed to think better of it, instead turning to the saddlebags and unfastening them as she smoothly swung down onto her feet.

While he set the saddlebags down on the ground nearby, she untied the knots of the bridle, unwilling to leave anything that could get snagged and cause injury. When she was down to the last one, Weller joined her, holding out a small handful of scraggly desert weeds and smiling as Edwina eagerly tugged them out of his hands.

"Saddleblankets?" he asked, still not looking at her.

"Leave them. If we weren't so exposed I'd take them off and brush her down before we let her go, but it's too much of a risk."

With the knots undone and the weeds gone, Remi gently stroked the horse's soft nose, then drew off the bridle, lips twitching as Edwina continued to stand there quietly, waiting.

"Go on," she said, giving her neck a gentle push. She went only as far as a thin clump of desert grass a few feet away, but it was a start. Moving over to the saddlebags, Remi found that Weller had already removed the more useful items they'd contained— a little food, an extra canteen, the machetes— and managed to fit all but the machetes in the medkit. Hooking one of the blades through her belt, she turned to look at him, holding out the other machete hilt first.

"Ready?"

He nodded, accepting the other blade from her before looking back at the happily grazing horse.

"Good luck, Edwina. Hope you make it."

"She will," Remi answered simply, surprised to find she actually believed it. Then, she turned and started making her way up the side of the slope, placing her feet carefully in the loose stones, ignoring the sharp stab that went through her thigh with each new step.

It was slow, sweaty progress, and it was soon very clear that letting the horse go had been the right call; more than once one of them nearly fell, the scrape of boots on shifting rock accompanied by growled curses. By unspoken agreement, she led the way, refusing to consider that Weller was deliberately positioning himself behind her to catch her in case she fell and started to slide.

Finally, though— just as the heat and exertion was becoming almost unbearable— they reached the top of the rise, the desert opening up before them.

And somewhere on the horizon, camouflaged amongst the sand and stone, was the cluster of buildings that would be their salvation.

Halting beside her, Weller leaned down, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to slow his heavy breathing. They'd both done far longer and steeper treks, usually with a few dozen pounds on their backs, but that was when they were fresh and at the peak of their strength. Between their injuries, their lack of sufficient food and water, and the few days in the desert sun, they were both struggling.

At least, finally, the end was literally in sight.

"Well, that was a bitch," Weller said once he had his breath back, and she nodded in agreement, holding the canteen out to him. Accepting it gratefully, he took a small, careful swallow, rationing out what they had left. When he tried to hand it back to her, she pushed it back towards him.

"Drink, Weller. There'll be plenty of water at the village."

After a moment's hesitation, he lifted it back to his lips and sipped slowly, his eyes lingering on her. Uncomfortable under that clear blue gaze that always saw too much, she looked away, focusing instead on finding one of their remaining protein bars in the medkit. When it was unwrapped, they did their usual trade— the canteen for half a bar— their patterns already so firmly set from just a few days together that they didn't need to speak.

When she sat, he sat with her, both of them deliberately taking their time with their meager lunch.

In a matter of hours, they would reach the village, and in another day or so they would be extracted back to base, get cleaned up, and go their separate ways, him heading back Stateside to join the FBI, and her… well, she'd go wherever Orion sent her, slotting into a new squadron as if the last had never existed.

She'd done it practically all her life, simply exchanging one place and its occupants for another, used to moving on without looking back.

But somehow she knew that this time, it wouldn't be so easy to forget.

#########

Honestly, this view almost made the climb worth it.

The landscape before them was truly breathtaking, even to two people who had spent every moment of the last several months surrounded by desert. From their elevation, they could see for miles— miles and miles of nothing but blue skies and the harsh, desolate beauty of nature.

From here, it felt like they could be the only two people in existence.

And really, that would be totally alright by him.

This little bubble they'd been in couldn't last, though; he knew that. Soon, they'd be at the village, and then at a base— and then they'd be out of here, back to the real world, where everything would be different.

He knew his FBI offer had been stupid; a pointless, grasping attempt, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. Regardless of what she'd said, he was so completely certain that she would not only fit there, but flourish, the agency challenging both her skillful body and her brilliant mind. She would have a freedom and a scope there that Orion could never match, and her abilities would benefit not only the Bureau, but everyone she encountered. It would be the ultimate combination, the perfect partnership.

Except it hadn't been the partnership of Briggs and the FBI that he'd really been thinking of, had it?

Briggs would make an incredible agent, and the Bureau would be worse off without her, that he truly believed.

But even more than that, _he_ would be worse off without her.

Five months ago, he'd been counting down the days until his contract was up, barely more than four weeks remaining until he could turn his back on the entire fucked-up operation and return Stateside, ready to scrub every inch of his body— and soul— clean of all he'd seen and done in the name of Orion, eager for the penance that would be his service with the FBI.

And then Hale had put a bullet in his brain, the PTSD finally catching up to him— and two days later his place was filled by a new recruit, the squad's first ever female member.

The guys had all been instantly infatuated, of course, though it hadn't taken more than a day or two and an Arctic level of iciness to turn their adoration into contempt, their compliments into jeers. He'd tried to make conversation a couple of times in that first week, but her walls were well and truly up, the message loud and clear behind those green eyes. After that, he'd kept his distance, careful never to reveal any particular interest in her to any of the others, but always doing his best to subtly intervene whenever one of them edged too close to crossing a line.

Often that had meant bearing the brunt of their 'pranks' himself, but he'd never minded; he'd been glad of it, even, happy to spare her even a fraction of the shit that she'd undoubtedly been wading through her entire life.

And by the time his four weeks was up, he was in the commander's office, sliding a freshly-signed contract across the desk.

He'd never regretted it; even now, after nearly burning to a crisp in the wreckage of a chopper he should have never been on, he knew more than ever that he'd made the right call.

Because he'd felt a connection like this once before, an inexplicable, unshakeable bond that went down to his very bones.

Back then, he hadn't been there when she'd needed him, and their connection had been severed forever.

Now, over twenty years later, he was finally getting the chance to get it right.

Together, he and Briggs would get through this— just like they would get through whatever came next.

He hoped that that would be training at Quantico, and then taking a place at the NYO— but he knew the truth, even if he hadn't admitted it aloud: if she went back to Orion, he would follow.

Thinking about the prospect of forever being one of Orion's attack dogs, he let out a heavy sigh, and beside him, Briggs started, as if shaken out of a daze. A moment later, she'd risen to her feet, slung her rifle into position, and turned to him with an unreadable expression.

"Let's move," she said brusquely, and he frowned up at her, wondering what had caused her sudden shift from relaxed— or the closest equivalent she ever reached, anyway— to what? Agitated? Annoyed?

"That was barely five minutes, Briggs. Surely we could afford a few more."

"The quicker we get moving, the quicker we get there," she stated coolly, her eyes already scanning for the best route down to the desert floor.

"Alright, alright," he sighed, then slowly pushed himself to his feet, barely holding back a groan as every muscle in his body protested. Loudly. Coming to join her, he looked at the ground that fell away before them.

"It's steeper than the other side," he commented, knowing that she was already fully aware of that fact. "More cliff than slope. This is going to be tough going, Briggs, especially on your leg."

"I'll be fine," she answered distractedly, her gaze sharp as she traced a possible path. "There. We go down this bit of slope, along that ridge, then down that gentler angle over there."

Leaning forward, he followed the line of her finger, following her proposed route with his eyes.

"I don't like the look of that ridge, but I don't see a better alternative, either," he said eventually. "I say we do it, but I want to take point."

She looked like she was about to argue, but then apparently changed her mind, instead giving a small shrug.

"Fine. Lead on, then."

With a small, teasing salute which she duly ignored, he moved past her, then carefully started picking his way down the sloping ground, his body angled side-on and each step sinking into a couple of inches of loose stones. She soon followed, and he subtly kept an eye on her, watching for any signs of trouble from her injured leg. The descent was slow, the two of them inching along cautiously, knowing that losing their balance or their footing even for a moment could send them tumbling to the ground hundreds of feet below.

Finally, a little over halfway down the mountainside, they reached the narrow ridgeline she had seen, the feeling of hard ground under their boots a relief for both of them. His own relief was short-lived, though, because he finally got a clear look at their chosen path, and he didn't like what he saw.

Behind him, Briggs clearly noticed his hesitation, her eyes on him as he looked around, assessing their options.

"What's the holdup, Weller?"

He pointed, his voice low and serious as he spoke his concern. "See how part of the foundation under this ridge has eroded away? We couldn't see it from up there, but it's pretty bad in places. I don't trust it."

"It's only a couple of dozen yards," she said after a moment, sounding like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. That they didn't really have a choice in the matter was left unsaid; both were well aware that the only other direction available to them ended in a high, sheer cliff.

Which meant that— unless they climbed all the way back up the steep incline and spent even more time trying to find a path they might have missed before, which was highly unlikely— this was their only option.

Knowing that she would have come to the same conclusion, Weller let out a sigh, and turned back to her.

"We're going to have to risk it. You lead, I'll follow a few steps behind," he said evenly, stepping back a little to give her room.

He outweighed her by dozens of pounds; if there were weak points along their path, her likelihood of getting across safely was much greater than his, and he wouldn't jeopardize that by going first.

It was the right call, simply the most logical choice, which meant she couldn't fight him on it.

Seeing the grim look on her face— the look that meant he was right, and that she didn't like it one bit— he gave her a small, reassuring smile, then gestured towards the narrow rock ledge.

"Well, see you on the other side, Briggs."

She didn't reply; just gave him a tight nod, then turned and moved slowly ahead, her steps calm and measured, her weight perfectly balanced with each step.

He admired that, her grace and her coolness under pressure, the way she could shut the rest of the world out and focus only on her goal.

Following her lead both literally and metaphorically, he took one careful step, and then another, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground before his feet. His eyes gave him no real clues, though, so he focused most of his attention on listening; listening for any sign of change, of impending danger.

But there was nothing— just the faint, rhythmic crunch of boots on rock, and soon they were already more than halfway along the ridgeline, their progress steady, the safety of the long, gentle slope of the foothill drawing ever closer.

Just another minute, he figured, glancing at the remainder of the path before them. That's all they needed— another minute, and they'd be clear.

They got forty seconds.

There were still at least three yards left of ridge ahead of Briggs when he heard it, the faint groan and shift of rock, the almost imperceptible tremble beneath his feet that meant game over.

For once, he was faster than her; throwing himself forward, he slammed into her back, shoving her as hard as he could. The force of it sent her forward two lurching steps before she hit the ground at full stretch, her hands digging into the loose stones of secure ground while his slammed into the dirt where she'd been standing only a second ago, dirt that crumbled beneath his palms.

He had time for a single sharp breath, a single grateful thought:_ she'd made it; she was safe._

And then the ground beneath him simply fell away.

And took him with it.

#########

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_*Evil laugh*_

_(But hey, at least my delayed posting means that you won't have to wait as long for the next chapter, eh?)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Hi all! Here we are again already (told you I'd be on time this week!). I really enjoyed your responses to my evil cliffhanger haha, but I've had my fun now, so I promise I won't keep you in suspense any longer..._

_(Though now I'm nervous, yikes! Hope you like it!)_

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Weller was gone.

She knew it, knew it even before she managed to get breath back into her winded lungs, even before she lifted her scraped cheek from the stones. It pierced through the shocked haze that had enveloped her like a bullet through her chest, a low, pained groan building in her throat as her fingers scrabbled for purchase in the dirt, a groan that rose into a scream of fury and frustration as she forced her aching muscles and shaking limbs to obey, pushing herself to her hands and knees in the loose, shifting stones.

As she finally fought her way to her feet, the sound tore savagely from her, hoarse and primal, her entire being raging against the desert, the helicopter, the whole fucking war; everything that had played a role in taking him from her.

At the sight of the crumbled ridge, the space where he had been and now was not, the wordless cry took shape, his name seeming to echo repeatedly across the mountainside. Or maybe it was just herself she heard, yelling it over and over as she staggered blindly down the slope, skidding and sliding, not even noticing the small jagged stones that were doing their best to shred the skin on her hands and arms, her eyes only on the fresh pile of dirt and rocks that had settled at the base of the mountain, a haze of red dust hanging in the air above it.

At her reckless speed, she covered in barely more than a minute the distance that would have taken them at least an hour to carefully work their way down, and then the moment she hit solid ground she was up and running, his name falling again and again from her lips as she stumbled over the piles of rock, searching, searching—

_There_.

He lay half-buried in debris, body limp and eyes closed, covered in a fresh layer of dirt and blood, something deep within her turning to ice at the sight. In seconds she was by his side, her hands reaching for his face as she rasped out his name.

"_Weller_! Weller, can you hear me?" she asked frantically, the closest to blind panic that she had ever been, one hand tapping rapidly against his stubbled cheek, searching for any flicker of response with eyes that burned from grit and tears. Shaking hard, she held her breath and leaned in, putting her cheek close to his mouth, desperate to feel the touch of his breath on her skin. If he wasn't breathing, then it was over. Even with the medkit— which was currently out of her reach anyway, buried somewhere in the rubble beneath him— and her extensive first aid training, it would never be enough. Not out here, not with help still so far away.

This time, she wouldn't be able to save him.

A sudden, ragged sob tore from her, and she pulled back, her eyes fixing again on his face as she cradled his head, her body bowed over his. Swallowing back the burning tightness in her throat, she tried again, stubbornly refusing to give in, to let go.

_"_Weller! _Kurt!_ Kurt, goddammit, _please_," she begged hoarsely, fingers pressing hard against either side of his head. "Kurt, come on, open your eyes. Just— look at me. Please."

He didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe, though with the violent way her own body was shaking it was impossible to be sure. Still, she watched him closely, her eyes locked unblinkingly on his face, her mind searching desperately for options, for something— _anything_— that she could do, some way to bring him back to her.

She had spent her entire life training to face every possible threat and win, but right now— right when it mattered most— she was helpless.

Rage blazed hot in her chest— at herself for becoming so weak, and at him for making her that way. Somehow, in just a matter of days he'd done what she'd spent her life actively trying to prevent anyone from ever doing: he'd made her need him, and now— just as that need had become ingrained somewhere deep within her, indelible and irrevocable— he'd abandoned her.

"Don't you dare leave me here, Kurt Weller, don't you _fucking_ dare," she snarled abruptly, voice cutting sharply through the silence, thick with tears and fury. "You hear me? You don't get to die on me. Now fucking _wake up_."

There was no response, though, and after a few torturous moments she felt a shudder ripple through her as the fire inside her abruptly went out, her body sagging until her forehead pressed against his, her tears mixing with the dirt on his skin.

And then she heard it; the faint, strained whisper, each fragment escaping his lips on a shallow breath.

"I didn't... think you even... knew my first name."

She lifted her head so sharply that it sent a bolt of pain through her neck and shoulders, her eyes fixing instantly on his, finding them open and looking at her. They were still a little clouded from the battering he'd taken, but the expression in them was all too familiar to her now, the tenderness he no longer bothered to hide.

She'd truly thought she'd never see those eyes again.

"Your first name should be _Fucking Idiot_," she snapped back, her mind automatically converting everything she felt into anger, the way it had always done. "The ground under you was stable! If you'd just stayed still you would have been fine."

"But you wouldn't have been," he answered simply, his voice growing stronger, steadier. "I made the call, Briggs, and I'd make the same one again."

He sounded so calm and assured as he said it; so serene in the belief that her life was worth more than his.

She wanted to yell at him. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to get up and walk away, to just keep walking so she'd never have to hear him say anything so stupid ever again.

But more than anything, she just wanted _him_.

"God, I hate you," she growled in frustration, the words barely having left her lips before she leaned down and pressed them to his, her hands cradling his head, holding him close as she kissed him hard. She allowed herself only a few seconds of weakness— just long enough to convince herself that he was really here and alive, long enough to brand the taste and feel of him into her memory— then ended the kiss as abruptly as she'd started it, pulling away sharply and ignoring the low noise of protest that escaped his throat.

Avoiding his wide-eyed stare, she released his face and busied her hands in shifting the dirt and small rocks that half-covered him, freeing him and letting her get a better idea of his injuries, her mind already defaulting back to the detached, clinical focus that was its usual defense.

Seemingly recovering himself after a few long moments, he cleared his throat, the huskiness in his voice making her cheeks heat. "You know, if I'd realized that falling off a cliff was all it would take to get your attention, I'd have done it months ago."

"Do you think you can walk?" she asked brusquely, deliberately ignoring his words.

"Not sure," he said slowly, a trace of mischief entering his voice as he added, "I think I'm feeling a little weak in the knees right now."

"_Focus_, Weller," she shot back, but it lacked her usual bite. "I need to get a gauge on your injuries, so quit messing around and give me your status."

"Right knee's not good," he replied honestly, his demeanor turning serious, clearly seeing that now was not the time to tease her. "Everything else just feels like one huge bruise, and obviously my head is killing me, but the knee is new. I think it got twisted under me when I landed."

With a nod, she went about clearing the rest of the rocks from around him and digging away the layer of dirt. When she was satisfied that she had him clear, she held out a hand.

"Try to sit up," she ordered, and he obediently closed a hand around hers, the other planting on the ground beside him. It was an effort, she could tell; his movements were stiff, a pained grimace crossing his face as he levered against the dirt. But he made it to a sitting position, his breathing slowly evening out after a few moments, their hands remaining joined a few seconds longer than was necessary before she reluctantly made herself let go.

"Alright, Weller. I need to see you stand," she said finally, after giving him half a minute or so to rest. "I'll help you up, and then we're going to move over to that rock over there."

His eyes shifted to the large rock just a couple of yards away, then back to hers, and he clenched his jaw, giving her a brief nod. Rising to her feet, she braced herself, then looked down at him.

"Come on, Weller," she said evenly, holding out her hands to him, her eyes on his. "I've got you."

"I know you do, Briggs," he replied quietly, his gaze never leaving hers as he reached up and took her hands. Then, he drew a deep breath, getting his left leg under him and pushing himself up while she pulled, and after a brief struggle he had made it to his feet, most of his weight resting on his left leg.

"Just a few steps," she told him, slipping under his shoulder and letting him lean on her as they limped together to the rock then settled him atop it.

Once she'd assured herself that he wasn't about to keel over sideways, she stepped back, then quickly located his rifle and the medkit in the pile of debris, digging it free and carrying it back over to him within moments.

As she bent to prop the rifle against the rock, her hair suddenly fell around her face, hot and damp and irritating as it stuck to her sweat-covered skin, her bun at last unraveling from the hasty journey down the slope. Straightening, she impatiently scraped it back up and twisted it into place, scowling.

"If we make it back alive, the first thing I'm doing is cutting off all this fucking hair," she growled, securing it with a snap of the hair tie and reaching again for the medkit.

"I think you'd look really good with short hair," Weller remarked vaguely, his eyes roving over her face and hair as if he was picturing it, his head giving a tiny, approving nod as though he liked what he saw.

Reminding herself of his very recent head injury, she ignored both his comment and the stupid heat in her cheeks, instead focusing all her attention on laying the medkit out on the rock beside him and searching for what she needed. He didn't say anything further, just waited quietly while she got organized, accepting the Vicodin she held out without a word of argument.

Stepping in close, she worked methodically, avoiding his eyes as she ran her hands swiftly over his skull and the back of his neck, checking for fractures, relieved when she found none. Next, she changed all the dressings over his wounds, sighing at the couple of popped stitches but overall satisfied that the cuts were still healing cleanly. Through it all, Weller said nothing, and she couldn't stop herself from shooting glances at him, trying to gauge what was going on inside his head— but his eyes were shuttered, his expression distant, and she couldn't read him at all.

There were only a handful of inches between them, but it felt like he was miles away; and in a strange way, she found she missed him.

Uncomfortable with the feeling, she turned her focus to her next task, keeping her eyes away from his face. Tugging a couple of SAM splints free of the kit, she knelt beside him and swiftly bent and taped them into shape, surprised when Weller wordlessly reached down to hold them in place on either side of his thigh for her. Shooting him a quick look of thanks, she wound the bandage firmly around his leg from mid-calf to mid-thigh, securing the entire length of the splints before tying off the end of the bandage.

She'd applied SAMs before, but never so carefully as she did now; there was no knowing what lay ahead of them, and she would do whatever she could to prevent his injury from putting him any more at risk than he already was.

Especially when he'd gotten it saving her life.

Once she was satisfied with her work, she climbed to her feet, and was just reaching into the medkit for the canteen when he finally spoke.

"Briggs," he began carefully, his voice quiet but resolute. "I want you to keep going without me. I'm only going to slow you down, and keep both of us in the open for longer. If you went ahead, you could reach help sooner, and send someone back for me."

"Not a fucking chance, Weller," she said sharply, then covered her alarm with sarcasm. "I've already carried your useless ass halfway across the fucking desert, a few more klicks won't make a damn difference. So stop talking."

"Briggs—"

"Shut _up_, Weller," she snarled, a sudden fury simmering under her skin. "I'm not fucking leaving you, okay? So just— shut up."

She could see he wanted to argue, so she shoved the canteen at him. "Drink. We're moving in two minutes."

Reluctantly accepting the canteen, Weller took slow, careful sips while she repacked the medkit, and she could feel his eyes on her all the while. Without looking, she held out a hand and he obediently returned the canteen to her, and she took a quick swig before securing it in the kit. Zipping it closed, she pulled the kit onto her back and adjusted her rifle beside it, tugging on both to ensure they were secure. Then she bent and picked up the M4, finding Weller still watching her as she turned and lowered the strap over his head, adjusting its angle against his back.

"Time to go," she said at last, moving to stand in front of him. Without meeting his eyes, she held out a hand to help him up, but he didn't take it. Scowling, she lifted her gaze, fixing it squarely on his in challenge. "Weller, give me your damn hand."

Letting out a quiet sigh, he finally reached out and closed his fingers around hers, and she smoothly pulled him to his feet, watching his face carefully. Satisfied that he didn't seem to be about to collapse, she moved in close, again hooking his arm over her shoulder and letting him lean on her.

Their movement was awkward at first, his splinted leg throwing off their balance, but soon they got into a rhythm, their progress slow but steady. Bound together as they were, they developed a system pretty much immediately; while she watched their surroundings for threats, he watched the ground for trip hazards, warning her with a quiet word here and there.

Aside from that, though, he didn't speak, and she found the silence completely disconcerting. They'd spent hours in silence over the last few days— some of it comfortable, some not— but this felt different somehow, and she didn't like it.

They were passing a cluster of large rocks when he abruptly pulled away from her, staggering over to the nearest rock and bracing himself on it as he bent double and vomited.

"Weller!" she called out in alarm, and was by his side in seconds, her hands reaching for him.

"I'm all good, Briggs," he said, the words coming out as a groan. "I thought I'd gotten used to the dizziness, but it just got to me for a second there."

"Goddammit, Weller, you're supposed to tell me this shit, not just keep stumbling on til you drop," she growled, pulling the canteen from the medkit and shoving it into his hand.

"It's nothing. Seriously," he assured her, carefully straightening until he was standing fully upright, then lifted the canteen to his lips with hands that trembled. "Just the regular old concussion stuff. Nothing that either of us hasn't had plenty of times before."

Clenching her jaw, she accepted the canteen back from him, wordlessly tucking it away before once more taking her place at his side, pulling his arm over her shoulders. This time, though, she didn't release his wrist, her hand staying curled around it so she could feel the beat of his pulse against her fingers as they walked, her anxiety eased a little by its strong and steady rhythm.

After they'd been moving again for several minutes, she felt him sway just slightly, her fingers tightening reflexively around his wrist.

"Talk to me, Weller," she ordered, fighting to keep the worry from her voice. "What do you need?"

"Actually, I need _you_ to talk to _me_," he answered unevenly, and for a second she was sure he was about to ask about the kiss, which was something she _really_ didn't want to talk about. But instead, he surprised her. "Could you tell me a story from when you were growing up, or something? I need something to focus on or I vague out."

She hesitated, and he leaned into her just a little more, an imploring note entering his voice. "Come on, please? It doesn't even have to be a story. Just one tiny little detail about your life, Briggs, that's all I'm asking."

She didn't know why she did it; didn't know what the hell could ever induce her to tell this man a secret that only two other people knew.

Maybe it was a form of payment for saving her life.

Or maybe, deep down, she just wanted him to know what it was that had made her into... this.

Taking a deep breath, she let the words out, speaking them with a mixture of apprehension and relief, like a sinner making her first confession.

"My name wasn't always Briggs."

Beside her, he was instantly alert, as if sensing the weight of what she was about to say next.

"It was Kruger."

#########

He couldn't believe it.

He'd been dying to know more about her for _months_, and finally, amazingly, he was getting his wish.

Honestly, he'd really rather that it wasn't right now, when his brain felt like it was inside a tumble dryer and when every word that entered his ears seemed to have to travel down a passage longer than the Brooklyn-Battery tunnel in order to register in his mind, but hell, he'd take whatever he could get.

And holy shit, what he was getting was more than he ever could have dreamed.

Alice. Alice Kruger, born in South Africa to loving parents who were murdered less than a decade later. She was sparing with the details, which was more than understandable— Christ, it was a miracle that she'd even told him as much as she had.

And somehow— even with his brain in its current messed-up state— he could tell she'd never told anyone any of this before.

Maybe she thought he wasn't going to survive, that his concussion was actually a brain haemorrhage and that there was no harm in telling him because he wouldn't make it to the village alive anyway. Or maybe she just thought the concussion would make him forget it all.

Or maybe, he'd finally earned his way past her walls, and was at last trusted enough to see who she was underneath.

When she eventually fell silent, it took him almost half a minute to realize it, his thoughts still so busy analyzing all she'd said. Recognizing that they'd come to the end of the story, that there would be no further elaboration on her military foster mother or the apparent guerrilla training she'd had from her through her teen years— and recognizing that to push for anything more would not only be foolish, but possibly unkind— Weller simply let out a low whistle, then gave a small shake his head as he spoke.

"You know, Briggs, it's not often that someone can top having a child murderer for a father," he told her, consciously working to keep his words from slurring. "But you have, and that feat deserves a beer. Whenever we get to somewhere that has beer, first round is on me."

He didn't see her expression at that— with the way his head still spun, he had to keep his eyes focused on the ground if he wanted to avoid both of them ending up in the dirt— but he felt the tension in her body ease just a little, her shoulders lowering.

"I prefer bourbon," was all she said, but he could tell by her tone that his response had been the right one.

More delighted by this random piece of information than was maybe logical, he pounced on the admission and the opening it provided.

"Really? Favorite bourbon?"

She thought for a moment. "Bulleit."

"What about favorite non-alcoholic drink?"

"Coffee," she answered slowly, clearly realizing where this was going. But she didn't stop him, so he just kept going, throwing out question after question, desperately hoping that his concussed brain would actually store the answers. Some she elected to pass, but for the most part she humored him— and despite the burning sun, the concussion, the hunger and thirst, and the pain that radiated through his entire body with every step, he actually felt... happy.

After a while, she started returning the questions, probably mostly to give her a break from his own, but maybe— just maybe— because she actually wanted to know him too. He found himself telling her all kinds of things, from his first teenage crush to his favorite pair of socks to his crippling fear that he would somehow become just like his father. While most of the things he'd told her had elicited very little response, that last one caused an immediate reaction, her grip tightening almost painfully around his wrist.

"You won't," she told him firmly, her voice almost fierce.

The certainty of her response thrilled him, his chest glowing with a surprised warmth, but it also made him curious. "How do you know?"

"Because we're not our parents," she replied vehemently, her words laced with an intensity that told him she'd been carrying them inside herself for a long time. "Just because they've chosen one path doesn't mean we have to follow. We make our own choices."

Too fuzzy to be able to censor himself properly, he nudged her side. "Well, I choose whatever path you choose, Briggs."

She paused for a moment, and even if he hadn't been concussed, he still wouldn't have had any idea what was going on in her head right then. Finally, she let out a slow breath, her voice quiet. "That's not how this works, Weller."

"Why not?"

She didn't have an answer for that; or if she did, she chose not to share it. Figuring he'd already used up his quota of luck for the day, he let it rest, and for several minutes silence stretched between them, broken only by their breathing and the scrape of his injured leg.

"My favorite animal is a snow leopard, in case you were wondering," he offered eventually, his voice light, hoping for a chance for a do-over.

She let him have it. "Good choice."

That brought him back to her favorite animal— she apparently hadn't had one, but when he pressed her to choose, she'd finally settled on grizzly bear— and then to the question that had followed it. "Do you really not have a favorite movie?"

"Really."

He frowned at the dirt before them. "Why?"

"Can't have a favorite if you've never watched any," she answered simply, as if that _wasn't_ an incredibly weird thing to say.

The frown deepened, his question coming out as confused as he felt. "None?"

"None."

"Not even Star Wars?" he asked incredulously, throwing off their rhythm as he turned his head to stare at her.

She shot him a look. "Do you know what 'none' means, Weller?"

"God, Briggs, you're killing me," he groaned, shaking his head at her before quickly fixing his eyes back on the ground so he wouldn't topple over. "Okay, I'm starting a list for you to watch when we're back in civilization. How do you feel about dinosaurs?"

Ignoring the sigh that escaped her lips, he proceeded to spend the next hour describing the plots of various movies to her and trying to gauge which seemed to even slightly pique her interest. He was in the middle of a synopsis of the first Ghostbusters when she abruptly shushed him, cutting him off mid-sentence.

The action wasn't at all a surprise— in fact, it was more of a surprise that she'd let him go on this long— so it was a couple of moments before he realized her actual reason for making him shut up.

_Voices_.

They were faint, drifting past them on the breeze, but they were there. _Children's_ voices, shouting and laughing.

The village. They'd found it.

Straining his aching eyes, Weller searched through the late afternoon light, but he saw nothing but more dirt and rocks.

"Where—"

"Shhh," she said, listening. "There. Hundred yards, 2 o' clock position. The village must be on the other side of those small hills."

Turning, he took in the hills, which were really not much more than large mounds, barely higher than a three-storey building.

"How do you want to play this?" he asked quietly, the gravity of the moment helping to focus him properly for the first time since his fall.

"I'll have to let you go when we approach," she said, eyes still on the hills. "Keep your gun ready but hands off, we want to be as non-threatening as possible. And let me do the talking."

"Yes ma'am," he answered seriously, all too happy to follow her lead. Even if he was at his best right now, he'd still want her in charge.

"We need to ditch that, too," she added, reaching for his borrowed clothing, tugging the dirty, slightly ripped garment up and over his head until he was once more back to just his tattered fatigues. Digging a little in the sand with her boot, she balled up the cloth and buried it, putting a couple of rocks over the top.

Straightening, she stepped back into the crook of his arm, helping him limp along. After another moment, she spoke up, throwing him a quick, measuring look. "Look sharp, Weller. I know our intel said otherwise, but this village may be occupied by hostiles."

"Got it, Briggs," he said, keeping his voice as level as he could, trying to keep her from having to worry about him as well as what they might find up ahead. "Let's go find out."

After another ten minutes or so of their slow, limping shuffle, they had successfully skirted the edge of the nearest hill, and finally gotten their first glimpse of the place that had been their goal for the last three days.

The very children they had heard were the first to see them, their playful shouts turning to cries of alarm that soon drew several adults from the squat earthen buildings that hugged the side of the hill, their eyes following the children's pointed fingers.

Glancing at him, Briggs released her hold on his wrist and stepped away— but not so far that she couldn't catch him if she needed to, her eyes watchful as he took his first couple of awkward steps, clearly making sure he could walk on his own. When he gave her a nod, she turned towards the gathering crowd, hands up and voice rising clearly above those of the villagers.

What she said, though, he had no idea, because it turned out his limited Pashto paled in comparison to hers, the foreign speech flowing as smoothly from her tongue as if she'd been speaking it half her life.

And hell, who knows. Maybe she had.

All he knew was that it seemed to be working, the tense, fearful body language of the people before them seeming to ease slightly, becoming more open, almost curious. They were clearly still wary— which was only natural, given how he and Briggs must look, two bloodied and ragged foreign soldiers appearing out of the desert with powerful weapons slung over their backs— but after another few moments one ventured forth a few steps, a young man not far out of his teens.

He and Briggs had a brief exchange, ending with him gesturing further into the village.

"He wants to take us to their village elder," she explained, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder at him. "Can you make it on your own? I don't want to offend anyone by touching you too openly."

"I'll be fine," he assured her, stepping up to her side. "The concussion has settled pretty well and the leg's no real problem. I'll be alright, I promise."

He could tell she didn't entirely believe him, but she trusted him to hold to his word, giving him a brief nod before turning her focus back to the young man she'd been speaking with.

Slowly, watchfully, they followed him through the village, the small crowd parting for them, hushed whispers following in their wake. Some of the braver residents followed too, including all the children, who stared at them with nothing short of wonder. After a minute, they turned into an open, vaguely square-shaped space ringed by multiple dwellings, with a well at its center. There were over a dozen people already scattered around the square, all of whom immediately ceased what they were doing and stared as the two of them came into view.

Their escort led them directly towards a man who looked to be in his late sixties, his gray-white hair and beard contrasting with the deep tan of his skin. He had been conversing with another man as they entered the square, but at their approach, he spoke a few quiet words to his companion before turning from him, stepping forward to meet them.

For a moment his expression was serious as he surveyed them both, and then to Weller's surprise, his lined face split into a wide smile.

"Welcome, friends."

#########

* * *

_Friends... or foes? Who knows!_

_Okay so ngl, the kiss scene was really stressful to write, because I really wanted it to feel authentic and believable and not *too* overdramatic lol_— _not sure if I succeeded with what I was going for, but ah well. At least we finally got some kissing! And a realisation of feelings! Aaaaaaah!  
Also, fun fact, that scene drew inspiration from certain scenes between three of my (many) favourite ships: Michael/Selene (Underworld: Evolution), Scott Lang/Hope Van Dyne (Ant Man and The Wasp), and Neo/Trinity (The Matrix). Turns out that one half of my ship thinking the other is dead/dying is a real thing for me haha..._

_Btw, I know that in the show Jane was in Orion under the name Alice Kruger, not Remi Briggs, but lbr she was still *actually* Remi, if that makes sense? (Plus I feel like the name just suits her better in this context). And what did y'all think about her telling Weller about her past? _

_Lastly (sorry I know this has become a long A/N), we're coming to the part of the story which includes more of the local people and culture, and though I did a lot of research and tried my best to represent everything accurately and appropriately, I know that there's a lot I don't know! So if something sets off a flag for you, please tell me and I'll do my best to fix it._

_As ever, thanks for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Welcome back :) Thank you all for your lovely reviews on last chapter, they made my day!_

_Enjoy x_

* * *

#########

His name was Hashem Yusafzai, and she didn't trust him.

He was a little too welcoming, a little too warm in his speech— which was predominantly Pashto with a smattering of English words thrown in— and while he naturally respected all the social codes of interaction between men and women, she had already noticed that it was in the relaxed style of a city-dweller, rather than the more conservative form usually seen in rural areas like this.

Weller clearly noticed none of that, though, his expression open and untroubled as he listened earnestly to their host. Unsurprisingly, Hashem had taken to him immediately, as people tended to do with Weller; when he was being professional or stern, people gravitated to the strength and security he exuded, but when he let the facade drop and revealed the easygoing kindness underneath, they flocked to him like moths to a flame, caught up in his light.

Which, in this case, meant that he was currently surrounded by a circle of eager villagers, all trying to press various foods or drinks into his hands, the braver ones voicing questions which she then had to translate for him.

Despite her exhaustion and wariness— and the complete lack of the friendliness and charm that Weller possessed— she found that she herself was also an object of some fascination and awe, mostly to the village children, who hovered around her, staring with wide eyes. Not wanting to scare them, she did her best to smile at them all— but she couldn't deny that after three days of relative quiet with only Weller for company, the noise and proximity of all these strangers was starting to get to her.

That, Weller _did_ notice. After they'd eaten and drunk enough to sate their stomachs— but not so much as to make them sick after eating so little for so long— he glanced over at her, then spoke up in faltering Pashto, advising the crowd that they 'needed to sleeping please'. Even this attempt was met with delight, his broken sentences apparently much more exciting to them than her fluency, but she didn't care; she was just grateful for his intervention, all too happy to leave the socializing and civilities to him.

As he'd no doubt intended, his words immediately sparked a discussion about where to put them, and she listened closely to the brief back-and-forth, with most agreeing that Weller should bunk with a few of the village bachelors while she should stay with an older woman and her adult daughter.

She was very familiar with the societal rules regarding gender among Afghan people, so she completely understood the reasoning for their choice; but if they thought there was even the slightest chance that she was going to let anyone separate her and Weller while they were still in enemy territory, they had another fucking thing coming.

She wasn't a moron, though, so she voiced her opposition to these suggestions to Hashem as carefully and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes lowered demurely as she spoke of their dedication to each other's safety, the family-like bond that existed between them as fellow soldiers, and her certainty that neither of them could ever find rest if they were separated, as they would each spend the night worrying for the other. Maybe she lay it on a little thick, but hell, going a little over the top couldn't hurt.

And really, all of it was true.

Her profession was met with astonishment by a lot of the villagers, and giggles from the children, but Hashem merely looked thoughtful, his eyes shifting from her face to Weller's for a moment before he spoke.

"My son and his wife are visiting family in Khiratalam," he told her in Pashto, naming the closest large town, which to her memory lay several hours' drive to the northwest. "Normally, they share a home with my wife and I. The two of you may have their bed for tonight."

Some of the older villagers looked affronted at this, but most seemed unbothered, clearly used to accepting Hashem's judgment as law. Beside her, Weller sat quietly, his gaze skimming over the reactions of those around them before looking expectantly between her and Hashem, clearly waiting to be told what was going on.

"Hashem has a spare bed, so we're staying with him tonight," she told him simply, not bothering with the rest. She really didn't need him knowing that she'd basically just campaigned for them to spend another night together in close quarters, especially after her embarrassing display earlier this afternoon.

At her words, Weller immediately looked relieved, but then he paused slightly, eyebrows drawing together. "Is that… allowed? Uh, culturally?"

He sounded so boyish and confused that she had to suppress the reflexive twitch at the corner of her lips— a response that he was seeming to evoke more and more with every day they spent together— instead adopting a neutral expression. He was right to ask, though; in many areas, such an arrangement would never have been permitted, but she was getting the feeling that this village wasn't exactly typical.

"Not usually, but I don't think they're as conservative here as in some other places," she explained, hoping he would still have the sense to tread lightly.

"Oh. Good. Tell him thanks," he said sincerely, directing a smile at Hashem which the older man returned.

"We thank you for your kindness and understanding," she said to Hashem, fixing her gaze on his chest, so she wouldn't accidentally meet his eyes. "I know our Western ways can be strange and foreign, but we have nothing but respect for your customs, and nothing but gratitude for all you have done for us."

She saw some of the villagers exchange approving looks at that, and even the older residents seemed somewhat mollified. Fortunately, foreigners had never been held to quite the same standard of behavior as native Afghans anyway— and as a female soldier, she was already well outside the status quo, so a little strangeness was probably not only accepted, but expected.

As for Hashem, he simply bowed his head in polite acceptance of her words, then stood, immediately joined by the kind-eyed woman he had earlier introduced as his wife. Gesturing at the two of them, he spoke briefly to the other villagers, bidding them to be good hosts to them both as long as they were with them in the village, and wishing everyone a good night. Then, he turned to her, and she nodded to Weller, both of them rising together.

Watching Weller closely, she saw the pain that flashed across his face as he straightened, but restrained herself from reaching for him, not wanting to push the residents' kindness and understanding any further by flouting their customs so openly. Instead, she just fell in step beside him, ready to catch him if needed.

Then, together, they followed after Hashem and his wife, with Weller waving and calling out terribly pronounced goodnights to everyone as they went.

They didn't have to go far; Hashem's house was quite close to the center of the village, and she was glad of it, seeing the hard set of Weller's jaw as he limped along beside her. Hashem allowed his wife to enter first, then gestured for them to follow him inside. It wasn't a large dwelling, but it was homely and comfortable, with brightly colored carpet and cushions lining the main open area which adjoined a small kitchen. When he led them through to the bedroom, they found two mattresses, one against either wall with a small table in between.

"This is the bed of my son and his wife," said Hashem, indicating the mattress to the right. "You may sleep here. Tomorrow, Nasrin will bring water for you to bathe, and I will find new clothes for you."

"Thank you, Hashem," she answered, and then found herself faltering for the first time. "And where is— where can one find the toilet?"

"Nasrin will show you," he said, nodding to his wife. "And when you are finished I will show Weller Khan."

"Thank you," she said again, then turned to Weller, switching back to English. "I'm going with Nasrin to the latrine. Try to behave yourself until I get back."

"Yes ma'am," he replied with mock seriousness, and she shot him a look before following Nasrin out the back door to the outhouse. When she returned after only a couple of minutes, she found Weller right where she left him, having a half-English-half-Pashto conversation with Hashem which seemed to be about Star Wars. Shaking her head, she moved aside to let them pass, then said a quiet goodnight to the kindly Nasrin and sunk down onto the mattress.

By Western standards, it was hardly luxurious, but to her, it was heaven. By the time Weller limped back in, she'd arranged both the medkit and rifle within easy reach, and had settled herself down under the soft blanket. Following after Weller, Hashem bid them goodnight, extinguishing the lamp before joining his wife, his body all but blocking hers from view.

Awkwardly lowering himself to the floor, Weller shuffled his body in beside hers, leaving his knee splint and boots in place for the same reason that she hadn't removed her own— because, no matter the apparent genuine kindness of their hosts, to trust anyone other than each other was a risk not worth taking, and they needed to be ready for anything.

After several more seconds of wiggling, he finally settled beside her, both of them lying on their backs with their rifles flanking them on either side.

"Definitely beats lying in the dirt," he whispered, and she elbowed him lightly.

"Shh. Go to sleep, Weller."

She was almost under when she heard him speak again, so quietly that she almost didn't catch it.

"Goodnight, Remi."

#########

She was gone when he woke up.

Disoriented, he sat up abruptly, blinking against the light that filtered in from the other room. His mind woke slower than his body, his senses still caught up in the vague memory of her lying draped over his chest, sleeping soundly in the protective curve of his arm. But no, that was surely a dream, not reality; and right now, the only reality that he _was_ sure of was that she wasn't here.

Holding back a groan at the effort, he grabbed his rifle and pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself awkwardly against the earthen wall as he waited for his legs to solidify. Once he was certain he could walk, he ventured out of the empty bedroom and into the living area, immediately propping his rifle against the nearest wall as he saw that there was no cause for alarm.

In the kitchen area stood Nasrin and Briggs, bent over a pot full of something, murmuring quietly in Pashto. When he stepped forward, they both looked up, Nasrin's eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile while Brigg's eyes flashed with something almost equally as warm before they quickly shuttered, looking him over.

"Thought you were going to sleep all day," she remarked dryly, arching an eyebrow at him, and it was then that he realized that the dirt and blood was gone from her face and hands, her pale skin marred by only a few cuts and grazes.

Moving a little closer, he held back a yawn. "What time is it?"

"About 0700," she said, as if the day was already half over. "Hashem is out visiting, though he should be back soon. Breakfast's still several minutes away as well, but there's a bowl there for you to wash up if you want. Just take it out the back so you don't traumatize our hostess."

"Man, a real bed, hot breakfast, and now a bath... we're living the dream here, Briggs," he sighed happily, limping over to the table that held the large clay bowl she'd indicated. But he didn't pick it up, instead just lingered a little, enjoying the simple domesticity of the moment. "So, how'd you sleep?"

"Fine," she answered curtly, turning back to the pot, and he could have sworn that her cheeks were suddenly a shade pinker than they had been before— though it was probably just from the steam, or the heat of the stove or whatever.

"Right, well, I'll be back in a bit," he said awkwardly, suddenly feeling like he was intruding, though on what he had no idea. Hefting the heavy bowl, he took care not to spill any water on the carefully-swept floor. "Call out if you need me."

Heading out the back door, he set the bowl down on a roughly hewn wooden table that sat against the wall, then made a quick visit to the outhouse. Returning, he lowered himself clumsily onto the wooden stool that sat beside the table, his injured leg outstretched, then used the water and cloth from the bowl to clean himself as best he could. It was a little difficult without a mirror, but he did his best, thankful to be free from the constant itch of sand and dried blood that had been crusted onto his skin for days.

Despite not being able to see his efforts, he felt he was pretty close to looking somewhat presentable when Briggs came looking for him a few minutes later.

"Breakfast's ready," she said simply, stopping in the doorway.

"Great," he replied appreciatively, putting the cloth back into the bowl. "I'm done anyway."

Stepping forward, she looked at him critically, then shook her head and moved over so that she was standing directly before him.

"Stay still," she told him, picking up the cloth in one hand and holding his chin with the other while she gently dabbed at a few places he'd clearly missed.

Her order was completely unnecessary; his body had already frozen the moment she'd reached for him, not daring to move a muscle, unwilling to risk breaking the spell of this moment. Still, he couldn't keep himself from looking up at her, his eyes studying her closely, her face only a handful of inches above his.

Her expression gave away nothing, however, her gaze fixed only on her task— and all too soon the moment was over, her fingers releasing his chin as she dropped the cloth back onto the table.

"Now you're done," she said, her tone indecipherable, and the next second she'd stepped back, putting space between them, her body no longer bracketed by his knees.

Trying to seem nonchalant, he gave her what he hoped was an easy smile. "Thanks, Briggs."

Without bothering with a response, she turned and disappeared back into the house, and— after giving himself a moment to breathe— he followed slowly after her, setting the washing bowl back down where he'd found it before gratefully accepting a small bowl of something vaguely resembling oatmeal from Nasrin.

Taking seats on the cushions that ringed the living area, they ate silently together for a few minutes, the moment feeling oddly peaceful and domestic. It didn't last long, though; soon, Hashem entered, looking between him and Briggs as he spoke, his tone calm, almost curious.

Glancing at Briggs, Weller lifted his brows in question, waiting for her to bring him in on the news.

Taking her eyes off Hashem, she turned to him, her voice serious. "He says there's an American man here. He's asking for us."

He frowned slightly. "Just one? Not a team?"

"Just one," she confirmed, then asked a brief question, which earned a few sentences in reply. "He says there are other men with him, but they are all Afghan."

"Well, then I guess we go meet him," he said simply, carefully rising to his feet and setting his bowl down in the kitchen. While he retrieved his rifle, Briggs spoke briefly with Hashem, then collected her own, both of them slinging the weapons over their backs as they followed Hashem out the door.

In silence, he led them past several buildings to the edge of the village, where the faint outlines of a road stretched into the distance.

Parked about a dozen yards away was a battered humvee, clearly not military. And there, leaning against the hood, was their visitor.

He was younger than Weller by several years, handsome and clean cut, and— excepting the wicked scar that ran down the right side of his face— looked absolutely nothing like someone Orion might send on a solo retrieval op.

Glancing across at Briggs to gauge her impression, he was surprised to see her staring at the newcomer in shock, her expression shifting as he watched into something that he could have sworn actually resembled _joy_.

"Roman!" she cried suddenly, and then she was gone, crossing the distance between her and the stranger at a near run before throwing her arms around him, and a second later he was lifting her, holding her tight.

Right. Well, that was that then. He wasn't at all shocked that she should have someone— because of course anyone who actually stuck around long enough to see past the hard shell would never want to let her go— but hell, she might have mentioned it, even as private as she was. If she had, he would have respected it, would have kept his distance, and wasn't that exactly what she'd wanted?

And then there was that fucking kiss, which was now all but confirmed as purely a heat-of-the-moment thing, and which was most definitely going to haunt him for the rest of his days now that he knew that it was doomed never to be repeated.

Fuck.

He wasn't close enough to hear what the man said to her, but he saw the intent way he checked her over for injuries, the possessiveness of his hands at her shoulders. It wasn't really the typical '_thank god you're alive' _lovers' reunion, but Briggs certainly wasn't the most touchy-feely person he'd ever met, so maybe PDAs just weren't their thing.

But then again, when he'd fallen from that cliff she'd thought he was dead for all of about two minutes, and the moment she'd realized he wasn't, she'd kissed him so hard it'd made his head spin way more than the concussion ever had. In comparison, this was downright platonic, really, almost like they were...

Well, he was a fucking idiot.

A fucking _ecstatic_ idiot.

If he hadn't already been so busy wallowing, he would have put it together immediately, but at the very least it happened just in time for him to wrestle his jubilant grin under control before Briggs grabbed the guy's arm, speaking in a firm undertone before pulling him over.

Taking a couple of steps forward, he met them in the middle, Briggs' eyes meeting his as she made the introductions. "Weller, this is my brother, Roman."

"Good to meet you," Weller said sincerely, sticking out a hand that was thankfully now only minimally encrusted with grime. Not that it mattered, though, because Roman promptly ignored it in favor of silently scrutinizing him, all traces of softness gone from his expression. Seeing the swift, calculating glance that Roman sent between him and Briggs, Weller could tell that the younger man had already figured out just how happy he was to meet her _brother_.

"Thank you for helping my sister to get back here alive," Roman said stiffly, and Weller shot her a look, letting his hand fall back to his side as Roman added, "From what I just heard, she couldn't have done it without you."

There was an odd trace of accusation in his tone, though which of them it was directed at, he had no idea. His initial despair over the handsome stranger being her lover had momentarily distracted him, but now he was becoming all too aware of the tension, the strange vibe between them. When they'd drawn near just moments ago, Briggs had released Roman's arm, and— consciously or not— had positioned herself halfway between them, as if bridging the two sides.

And being on the opposite side to a brother she clearly cared a lot about was definitely not where he wanted to be.

"More like I couldn't have done it without her. She's saved my ass more times than I can count," Weller responded lightly, trying to ease the strained atmosphere that had enveloped the three of them, trying to show Roman exactly where his loyalties lay.

"Gets a bit hard once you run out of fingers, does it?" Roman asked in the exact same cutting tone that Briggs had always used when she felt uncomfortable or exposed, the family resemblance becoming apparent to him for the first time.

"Roman," she hissed, but Weller just grinned.

"Nah, I can go higher, it's just a real bitch taking off my boots every time."

With an expression that shifted swiftly from surprise to measured disdain, Roman turned to Briggs, effectively dismissing him.

Well, so much for convincing him they were on the same side.

"I need to talk to you about the crash," Roman told her, his tone low and important. "There's more to it than you know."

She scowled at him, her voice sharp. "So say it, Roman. And cut out the childish bullshit. This isn't the orphanage."

Roman flushed angrily, but obeyed— or, partly, at least. He told her what she wanted to know, but whatever that was, Weller had no idea, because he told her in what Weller could only guess was Afrikaans.

For a moment she seemed about to scold him further, but then his words apparently started getting through to her, because her expression changed, the irritation on her face morphing into something stony and unreadable. It was a look Weller had come to recognize, and it meant that whatever Roman was telling her, it was really, really bad. He'd only managed to catch the words 'Orion' and 'Shepherd' when he saw the glance she shot at him, eyes stark with barely-concealed alarm.

"She's sure Orion was behind this? Can the Intel be trusted?" she asked urgently in English, and Roman nodded, meeting her gaze steadily.

Oh, _fuck_.

"She has someone on the inside," he answered calmly, seemingly completely unconcerned about the fact that an incredibly powerful organization had apparently just attempted to assassinate his sister. "I was there when they made the report."

"Shit," she muttered darkly, eyes flicking between him, and Roman, and the village behind them. "Shit, shit, _shit_."

Knowing exactly how fucked they now were, Weller had to agree.

As he watched, Roman stepped closer to Briggs, his bright eyes never leaving her. "It doesn't matter, Remi. Shepherd has a plan."

With another cold glance at Weller, he switched back to Afrikaans, his voice and expression growing intense.

"I don't _care_, Roman," she snapped abruptly, eyes blazing with a sudden fire. "She may want to topple empires, but I don't. I _won't_ help her."

Roman drew back a fraction at her words, and for the first time, Weller saw a flicker of real emotion in his eyes, something almost like longing, or even despair. But it disappeared before he could be sure, and when Roman spoke a moment later, his tone was perfectly even, giving nothing away.

"She wants to fix things between the two of you. Just come the home, Remi."

"I'm not going back to her, Roman," she ground out, her voice as cold and rigid as steel. Then, she looked over at Weller, and something in her seemed to settle at last, the fire in her eyes cooling into a calm, unshakeable determination.

When she spoke, it was with a quiet certainty, her eyes never leaving his.

"I'm going to join the FBI."

#########

* * *

_Yay, we finally got some Roman! :P And I know a few of you had been wanting Remi to choose to join the FBI, so I'm happy to grant your wish haha. I don't think Roman's going to be quite so thrilled about it, though...!_

_Also, fun fact, when I was first writing this fic I honestly expected it to end pretty much right around this point, but when I finally got to it, I was surprised to find that there was quite a bit more to tell. (Five more chapters' worth, in fact lol). Can't wait to share the rest of the journey with you guys!_

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Hi all, welcome back! Time to hear what Weller and Roman think of Remi's announcement :)_

_Hope you like it._

* * *

#########

She hadn't expected to say it.

Hell, she hadn't even known she'd actually been _considering_ it until literally the moment before the words left her mouth— but now they were out there, and she couldn't take them back.

At least not now, not when he was looking at her like that, like she had just given him the greatest gift he could have ever imagined.

The elated grin that spread across his face contrasted with the thunderous look that crossed Roman's, each of them reflecting one of the tumultuous mix of emotions inside her, the rest too messy and confusing to identify.

"_What?_" Roman hissed in Afrikaans, his voice acidic with rage and disgust as his eyes jerked from hers to Weller's, then immediately back again, his fury only growing at whatever he saw there. "You're betraying your family and your entire life's purpose because you've fallen for this… this fucking brainwashed American _grunt_?"

"It has _nothing_ to do with that," she snapped in English, belatedly realizing that that wasn't the outright denial she'd intended it to be. "He's not brainwashed, Roman, _we_ were! The world needs to change, but Shepherd's way is not the right way."

Drawing a breath, she made an effort to calm herself, and when she spoke again it was in a low, imploring tone, only a fraction away from begging. "Please, Roman. You can come with us— just give me your phone and we'll make some calls. I swear there's people out there who can help us."

Before he could reply, she stepped forward, her hand curling around his forearm as she softened her voice, her eyes seeking his. "We don't need her anymore, Roman. Just come with me, and we can both be free."

"There's no being free, Remi," he replied icily, yanking his arm from her grasp, distancing himself both physically and metaphorically. "The mission comes before everything. You used to know that. Now I don't even know who you are."

Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a satellite phone and tossed it to her, his face an expressionless mask. "Shepherd sent this for you. Her number is in there, if you come to your senses. And if Orion doesn't wipe you out first."

Clutching the phone in a tight, white-knuckled grip, she kept trying, even though she could already feel everything unraveling around her.

"Roman, please. At least take us back stateside with you. You and I can talk on the way, figure things out. I promise."

The 'us' had been a mistake. She realized it immediately, though deep down she knew that the attempt had been doomed from the start. As it was, he shot her a look of such bitterness and anger that she almost flinched, the fire in his eyes so unlike the soft-hearted boy she'd left behind.

When he spoke, there was a finality to his words that scared her, his voice dead, completely devoid of emotion. "Goodbye, Remi."

Then, he turned and walked back to the humvee without another word, and had almost reached the door when she broke out of her shocked daze, her breath rushing from frozen lungs.

"Roman!" she called desperately, then ran after him, pulling their coin from its home in the most secure pocket of her fatigues and pressing it into his hand.

"I love you," she told him fiercely, feeling the burn of tears behind her eyes. "When you're ready, come find me."

He said nothing, but kept the coin, his fingers closing tightly around it as he climbed back into the humvee and signaled to the driver.

Within seconds they were reversing and swinging around, the tires kicking up sprays of sand as they accelerated, leaving her standing in a cloud of dust.

For several moments she simply watched the vehicle growing steadily smaller, her heart feeling like half of it had just driven away from her. Then she heard the faint, uneven footsteps approaching, and a second later Weller stepped up beside her.

"I'm sorry, Briggs," he said softly, and she could hear how much he meant it, the genuine sadness beneath the words.

Without looking at him— because if she did, she wasn't sure she wouldn't just walk right into his arms and stay there indefinitely— she held out the phone, her voice flat.

"I hope your FBI friend has a long fucking reach, Weller. Because if not, we'd have been better off going down with the fucking chopper."

Then, she walked away, leaving both the phone and the responsibility for their rescue in his hands, unable to care about either right now. She heard him reflexively take a couple of steps to follow her, but apparently he thought better of it, and soon enough she was clear of the village and back into the open desert, disappearing into the shimmering haze of heat that rose from the baked ground, alone with the dirt and rocks and wide open sky.

Well and truly alone.

She couldn't blame Roman; she'd now abandoned him twice over, her efforts to escape Shepherd's web only entangling him further in it. She didn't even want to think about what the last decade must have been like for him, stuck there in Shepherd's choking grasp, without her there to shield him from her fury and her poison.

Maybe she should have gone back with him, should have played the game, pretending to be Shepherd's faithful pet once more until she could finally find a way to get him out of there for good.

But she knew she couldn't.

It was a miracle that she'd even made it out the first time; made possible by only one thing.

Shepherd had made a mistake.

She'd been too confident in her hold over them both, believing so much in the power of her own teachings that any opposition from Remi had been put down to nothing more than hormones and teenage rebellion.

And Remi had let her believe it.

She was sixteen when she'd first tried to bring up the idea with Roman, but he'd balked at the very thought of it. Shepherd's strict regime was his solid ground, and he couldn't survive the unknown, not even with her at his side.

So she'd waited, hoping that the seed she'd planted would slowly take root, that he would finally open his eyes the way she'd opened hers.

She was eighteen when she realized that it wasn't going to happen, that he would never get free of Shepherd unless she forced his hand.

So one night, she wrote him a note, and left.

She did it believing that he would follow, believing that their connection was stronger than the one between him and their so-called mother ever could be, never realizing just how deeply Shepherd had sunk her claws into him, and how much tighter her grip would become after her escape.

That was _her_ mistake.

When she'd seen him today, she'd thought he'd come for her, that he'd finally forgiven her for everything— but he'd only been following Shepherd's orders, was only here to retrieve her and deliver her back into the fold at last.

If she'd gone with him, she may have earned his forgiveness in time, may have finally gotten her brother back.

But it would have come at a cost; if she'd let them draw her back in, she would have been forever ensnared in Shepherd's net, watched too closely to ever get free again, forced to be the obedient soldier of the revolution that her foster mother had always trained her to be.

_That_ Remi would have to follow orders blindly, would have to do whatever it took to achieve Shepherd's goal, no matter how many lives she destroyed in the process, or how many innocents would suffer because they were part of the 'system'— like Weller soon would be— or even because they were simply collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Shepherd would do _anything_ to create her new world, including turning her children into monsters.

And it was a price that Remi simply couldn't pay.

Coming to an abrupt stop somewhere out in the emptiness, she slowly sunk to her knees, the small sharp desert stones digging into her skin.

Then, she pressed a hand to her mouth, and screamed until she couldn't breathe.

#########

He didn't see her for almost two hours.

Two of the longest hours of his fucking life.

Sure, she had a rifle, and she could take care of herself— he knew all that.

But after three days of watching her back through constant danger— danger which they now knew was far from over— no amount of logic was going to be able to stop him from going out of his mind with worry every second that she was out of his sight.

But he'd had to let her go.

After she'd handed him the phone, he'd done as she asked, dialing the number that he'd long memorized.

Mayfair's voice was husky with sleep, but her mind was clearly alert, and it took no more than a few sentences from him before she was formulating a plan for their extraction. Their conversation was brief, given that she had several calls to make in order to bring this together, but he managed to fit in one other request, which she promised him to fulfil.

Which meant that by now, Sarah Weller would have hopefully had an unexpected pair of visitors at her door; two trusted agents, there to inform her of his survival and then swear her to secrecy until he could be safely brought back stateside.

With their fate now in Mayfair's hands, he'd had nothing to do but wait in the village, trying his best to interact with its curious and friendly residents while his mind was stuck out in the desert, his thoughts wherever she was.

He did learn something helpful, though; Hashem managed to communicate to him that the village received a delivery of fresh goods twice a week, with a truck expected from Khiratalam sometime later this afternoon. If they wanted, he would accompany them on the truck when it made its return journey, and help them in any way he could.

Even if they'd had no language in common, he knew Hashem would have understood his gratitude. As it was, he thanked him multiple times in both English and Pashto, earning another of the older man's wide grins.

His first indication of Briggs' return was the excited shouts from the children, who only minutes later escorted her to the village square like a pint-sized guard of honor. Seeing her bowed shoulders and wearied expression, he had to fight the urge to stride over and pull her into his arms, instead forcing himself to wait motionlessly for her to join him.

"I've spoken to Mayfair," he said by way of greeting, needing to show her that there was at least _some_ good news that had come from all of this. "She's got a contact who she thinks can help us. And Hashem says that there will be a delivery here this afternoon and that the truck can give us a ride back to Khiratalam."

Looking to Hashem, she spoke in Pashto, clearly seeking confirmation of what he'd just told her.

When he gave it, she nodded, then came over and joined him, lowering herself tiredly onto the wooden bench seat beside him.

"You okay?" he asked softly, wishing he could reach for her.

"I'm fine," she answered, but her tone was all wrong, and he could tell she was deliberately avoiding looking at him.

"Briggs," he said, and she must have heard his concern, because she drew a breath and glanced over at him, eyes meeting his for the most fleeting of moments before fixing on the ground before them.

"I'm okay, Weller," she told him, her voice quiet but set. "I made the right call."

The call where she chose him and the FBI over her own brother and foster mother.

Okay, maybe it was more that she chose the FBI over whatever the hell civilian militia thing that her foster mother seemed to have going on, but still, she'd chosen the option that included _him_.

Barely more than a day ago she'd openly scoffed at his suggestion she join the FBI, as if the mere concept was too ludicrous to even consider. And now here she was, following him back to the States and to Quantico.

Maybe the bombshell about Orion was the deciding factor; maybe it wasn't.

Maybe she felt the same bone-deep dread at the thought of being separated from him as he felt towards her.

Knowing what her choice had cost her, he didn't want to press her on it, and definitely didn't want to give her any reason to reconsider— but before he let it go, there was one thing that she needed to know.

"Can you ask them to excuse us for a bit?" he asked apprehensively, forcing the words out before he could somehow lose his nerve, his palms suddenly a lot sweatier than a moment ago. "There's something I need to tell you."

Seeming to pick up on the grave undertone in his voice, the tension in his body, she didn't question him; just gave a small nod and stood, stepping back over to Hashem and sharing a brief exchange. Then, she looked over at him and tilted her head slightly, indicating for him to follow. She didn't wait for him, just turned and started leading the way— but her pace was slow and deliberate, clearly intended to allow him to catch up without straining his injured leg.

Without a word, she led him past several buildings to a low, rocky wall at the edge of the village, where they were far enough from the residents not to be heard or interrupted, but still within full view of several other adults, so it was clear that they weren't disappearing off for any inappropriate reason.

God, he _wished_ that was what they were doing.

Reaching the wall, she took a seat, her body perching on the edge as if just waiting for the cue to tell her whether she should choose fight or flight. Limping the last few steps, he sunk down beside her, careful to leave a decent gap between them; they hadn't had much opportunity for personal space in the last few days, which had honestly been just fine by him, but now he felt like he owed it to her to keep his distance.

Especially given what he was about to say.

Though now that it had actually come to the moment of speaking it aloud, he had no idea how to say it. He'd spent much of the last two hours trying to rehearse it in his head, but now that she was back and sitting right there beside him, his mind was utterly blank.

"Just say it, Weller. Whatever the hell it is," she said abruptly, still staring straight ahead, as if bracing herself. She'd spent her entire life shielding herself from others, and had just been abandoned by the one person in the world whom she actually loved— and now she seemed to sense that he was about to hurt her, too.

"I think the crash was my fault," he blurted, his hands clenching in the fabric of his trousers, his eyes on the dirt before his feet. He couldn't look at her; couldn't bear to see her look at him differently now that she learned the truth.

He could feel her turn to stare at him, could hear the utter confusion and incredulity contained in her single word. "_What?_"

Keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, he sucked in an unsteady breath.

"I first met Mayfair about a year and a half ago, when I was still in the army," he began, not knowing where else to start. "She'd somehow found out that I was being considered for an invitation to Orion, before I ever even knew myself. She approached me, covertly, told me her suspicions about Orion's activities and that she'd been trying for a long time to get eyes on the inside, but that they were too smart, too careful, and would never even consider anyone with any identifiable connection to the FBI. That day was the one and only time I ever saw her in person."

"She _recruited_ you," Briggs breathed, as if the pieces were all finally clicking into place. "You were a fucking _spy_."

He gave a stiff nod, somehow both relieved and miserable now that it was out there, that she knew him for what he was.

"After the chopper went down, I wanted so badly to tell you," he confessed, fighting to keep his voice level. "And that first night when you asked me what I was doing in Orion, I so nearly did. But my primary order— the very first one Mayfair ever gave me— was not to tell _anyone_, no matter what happened. And as much as I did want to tell you, I thought that if you knew, it would only put you in more danger. And I just— I couldn't risk that."

Voice hard, she asked the question he'd known was coming, the words almost a demand. "What did you tell the FBI about me?"

"Almost nothing," he assured her quickly, risking a glance at her. "They already had your official information from the moment you were even considered as a candidate, which was more than I knew about you anyway. All I told them was that you were the best in the squad, and that I didn't think you gave a shit about Orion's vision or politics, that it was all just a job to you."

He hesitated. "And I told them that I believed you had a good heart, and that you were the only one there that I felt I could trust, if it came to it. That's all, Briggs. I promise."

Beside him, she made a soft sound of disbelief, her arms folding tightly across her chest.

"I always knew that there was the risk that Orion would find out about me," he said frankly, staring out at the village before them. "That they'd orchestrate some kind of 'accident' to get me out of the way. I accepted that when I accepted Mayfair's offer. But I never—"

He broke off, fighting back the jagged lump that suddenly threatened to choke him, then cleared his throat and tried again, his eyes burning. "I _never_ thought that it would put anyone else in danger. I underestimated Orion, and that mistake killed our entire squad. It almost killed _you_."

She said nothing, her body as still and silent as a statue, while his felt like it was barely a breath away from crumbling into pieces.

"So, uh, here," he said, pulling the sat phone from his pocket and holding it out to her, working to keep both his hand and voice steady. "If that changes anything for you, if you want to call your foster mother or anyone else, I won't hold you back. Or if you want to use the evac that Mayfair's setting up and then go your own way once we're back in the States, that's okay too. She owes it to you to help in any way she can, and so do I."

His outstretched hand seemed to hover between them for an eternity before she spoke, her tone calm.

"Put the phone away, Weller."

For a moment he didn't move, not quite sure he understood what was happening. Then, slowly, he returned the phone to his pocket, his eyes searching for hers.

"I always knew you didn't belong in Orion," she said bluntly, her voice quiet but certain. "You had the skill, sure, but not the disposition. If I hadn't been so busy avoiding you, I probably would have put it together a long time ago."

She'd said it so simply, so plainly; she didn't sound angry, or even hurt.

Staring at her in confusion and disbelief, he let out an unsteady breath, the words tumbling out after it. "I'm so sorry, Briggs. For the crash, the lying, all of it."

She shook her head. "You didn't cause the crash, Weller."

"But—"

"I spent half my life being groomed to lead an organization like Orion," she said, interrupting him. "A leak like you is managed quietly and efficiently— like you said, an accident, involuntary suicide, whatever. Taking out that chopper was about more than that. Something spooked them, something big, and now they're destroying the evidence. Maybe Mayfair's involved, maybe she isn't. Either way we still have targets on our backs, but you didn't put them there."

It was several seconds before he managed to speak, his voice hoarse. "Thank you."

With a small nod, she pushed off the wall, stepping in front of him. "Any other big secrets I should know about?"

None that weren't undoubtedly written all over his face right now— or literally any time he looked at her.

"No," he answered, his eyes holding hers. There _was_ more to tell her, but it had nothing to do with any of the threats that lay ahead of them, so it could wait.

"Then come on," she said, holding out a hand to help him up. When he tentatively closed his fingers around hers, she pulled him to his feet, and he could have almost sworn she gave his fingers a tiny squeeze just before she let go and turned away.

Falling into step beside her, they walked slowly back to the center of the village, and he had to forcibly keep his eyes from returning repeatedly to her face, still hardly able to believe her reaction to his confession.

She knew. She knew the secret that he'd been carrying alone for the last eighteen months, the one he'd deliberately kept from her even after the crash, the one that— regardless of what she believed— may have endangered her life.

She knew, and she hadn't turned against him.

God, he would never stop being blown away by her.

When they reached the square, he was thankfully distracted by the immediate approach of several villagers, and for the next few hours they passed the time getting to know the people who lived here, learning about their lives and interests and answering questions about life in America. When lunch time rolled around, they all ate together, talking and laughing— and as soon as everyone was suitably preoccupied with their food and conversations with their neighbors, he saw Briggs draw Hashem aside slightly, speaking quietly with him for a minute.

When she settled once more onto the seat beside him, he turned just a little in her direction, his voice low.

"What'd you say to him?"

Leaning past him under the guise of reaching for one of the nearby plates of food, she murmured quietly, "That we'd learned that there are people after us, and that those people might be dangerous to everyone here if they were to find out they helped us."

Nodding slightly, he glanced over at Hashem, who was smiling sweetly at Nasrin. "How'd he take it?"

"He understood. He'll make sure no one ever mentions that we were here."

"Thank you," he said quietly, letting her hear how much it meant to him. "If Orion hit this place because of us..."

"They won't," she answered evenly, her knee pressing against his for just a fraction of a moment, but enough to have its intended effect, the tension in him slowly easing. Whatever lay ahead of them, at least he had her by his side.

A little while later, Hashem approached with a smile, saying something briefly to Briggs before gesturing for them to follow him.

"He's got clothes for us to wear," she explained, seeing his questioning look. "Come on."

With a quick wave to the villagers, he obediently followed the two of them back to Hashem's house, finding that Nasrin had already laid out a complete outfit for each of them. His looked much like Hashem's long tunic-like white shirt and loose trousers, complete with a dark vest, sandal-like shoes, and a familiar type of head covering that looked halfway between a turban and a headscarf. For Briggs there was just a pile of light-ish blue fabric that he belatedly recognized as a burqa. He saw her pick it up, then speak briefly to Nasrin, who gave a small smile and a quiet response.

Seeing him watching her, she said, "Most women here wear a tunbaan and a chador, like Nasrin has on, but back when the Taliban was in power here, they demanded all women wear only burqas while in public. She said she's happy for me to have it, because it only further proves that the Taliban is gone."

"Definitely makes for a good disguise," he agreed, a small smile on his lips as he raised an eyebrow at her. "Now we don't have to worry about anyone taking notice of your eyes."

Giving the women some privacy, he went out to the latrine to change, returning a few minutes later to the kitchen, where he was met with a look of approval from Hashem— though the older man still came forward to adjust his turban slightly before patting him on the shoulder with a fatherly smile.

When Briggs emerged from the bedroom, the only way he knew it was actually her was the way she walked, the confident stride that he knew so well. If not for that, she could have been any of the millions of Muslim women that resided here in Afghanistan, not even the tiniest glimpse of her appearance visible behind the fine mesh covering her eyes.

"You're perfect," he breathed, gazing at her. Then, realizing what he'd just said, he cleared his throat awkwardly, and pressed on. "The burqa was a great idea, really. No one could stand a chance of recognizing you like this."

"Keep those blue eyes down and you'll blend in pretty well, too," came the wry reply from beneath the fabric.

Speaking up from beside him, Hashem gestured between them, and Briggs immediately translated, her voice as unreadable as her expression now was.

"He says that until we're safe, you will be his son and I'll be your wife."

"Sounds good to me," Weller answered automatically, then hastily corrected himself. "Sounds smart, I mean. No one will question that."

"Truck should be here soon," was her only response. "We should head out. I've told Nasrin to keep the med kit, and I think it's better the guns stay too. What do you think?"

"I'd feel more secure if we had them, but we can't risk it," he said, knowing she'd already come to the same conclusion. "Maybe ask Hashem if any of them know how to use one?"

She relayed the question, and a moment later he gave an answer.

"Some of the younger men are familiar with rifles. He said he'll keep the guns here in case they ever need to defend themselves."

"Make sure he hides them well, in case Orion comes looking," he suggested, and saw her head tilt in a nod beneath its shroud of blue.

Once that— and the matter of their old clothes, which were apparently to be burned— was settled, they followed Hashem back to the square, where their new friends gathered around to express their approval of their new attire. Conscious that they would soon be leaving the sanctuary of this place for increasingly dangerous, unknown territory, Weller tried to spend his time observing the men, their posture and mannerisms, the way they moved and spoke.

Unarmed and vastly outnumbered as they were, blending in was likely their only hope of getting through this alive.

It was barely more than a half hour later that the much-anticipated truck arrived, more like a large, canvas-sided jeep than the boxy vehicle he'd been expecting. When it rolled to a stop, a couple of men jumped out of the cab, coming around to the back and efficiently unloading the goods with the practiced ease of experience.

While they worked, Hashem approached the driver, and after a brief conversation— and the handing over of some cash— he came back over to them.

Gesturing at the truck, he spoke a few sentences, then went to his wife, murmuring quietly to her.

"They'll take us to Khiratalam," Briggs explained, and from the angle of her body he could tell she was watching the men closely. "Once they're finished unloading, we'll get up in the back."

"Guess it's time to say goodbye, then," Weller responded, and— remembering to put his right hand over his heart— started saying thank yous and goodbyes to anyone in his immediate vicinity. Briggs was much more eloquent about it, as far as he could tell, given that she actually spoke full sentences and didn't just stutter out the same few words over and over. She spoke particularly to Nasrin, and he hoped that she was thanking her for the both of them.

Then it was time, and they joined Hashem at the back of the truck. Ignoring the sharp throb of his now unsupported knee— he'd had to sacrifice the splint in order to get his fatigues off— Weller climbed up first, then reached his hand down to help first Hashem and then Briggs, all three of them picking their way through the various goods to sit up near the cab, where there were some sacks of grain that would do for seats.

When they were settled, Hashem banged on the side of the cab, and the truck rumbled on. It was a bumpy ride, with every little rock that they went over causing Briggs' shoulder and knee to knock lightly against his— but she didn't move away, and neither did he.

Seated across from him, Hashem grinned, and spoke loudly above the growl of the engine.

Glancing over at Briggs, he lifted an eyebrow. "What'd he say?"

"He said he feels like he's in a movie. He just doesn't know which one yet."

"Hopefully one with a happy ending," Weller answered, then leaned his head back against the side of the truck, closing his eyes.

Only five hours of open road to go.

#########

* * *

_Phew! Some heavy emotions for both our babies in this one! Hope you guys enjoyed getting a little more of an insight into their pasts as well. _

_And okay so I wanna talk about something, and this seems about the right point in the story to do it. You guys have likely noticed that my Remi is a little different to the show's Remi, which was a deliberate choice that I made when writing this fic. The way I see it, the character of 'Jane' was the version of Remi that resulted if you took Shepherd and her abuse completely out of the equation, whereas *this* Remi is the version where Shepherd was removed maybe like halfway through. So really, my Remi is halfway between canon Remi and Jane. And that is the whole premise of the story, tbh_—_ the question 'Who would Remi have become if she'd gotten free of Shepherd in time, and had met Weller just a bit earlier?' But anyhow, only time will tell to see if I succeed with answering that question haha._

_Anyway, enough rambling from me._

_Thanks for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

_Hey guys! Happy Wednesday :) _

_As always, I am really happy to have you all on this ride with me._

_Enjoy x_

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#########

Her ass was really starting to hurt.

The constant shuddering and jolting of the truck coupled with the firm sacks they were sitting on certainly made for a less than ideal ride— but hell, at least it beat walking, so she wasn't about to complain.

And definitely not when neither Weller nor Hashem had voiced a single word about it.

Or about anything, really. So far, it had been a near-silent trip; or at least, one devoid of any conversation, given that the engine made more than enough noise to ensure that trying to talk was all but pointless.

Which meant they'd all been left alone with their thoughts for almost four hours.

Across from her and Weller, Hashem had his eyes closed, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his leg; if she had to guess, she'd say he was actually humming. Given his seemingly endless capacity for cheerfulness, she wasn't really surprised.

What did surprise her was the realization that she had come to almost... _like_ him. Less than 24 hours ago she wouldn't have hesitated to put a bullet in him if he'd given even the slightest indication of double-crossing them— but now here she was, trusting him to help get them safely where they needed to go.

God, Weller really must be rubbing off on her.

Speaking of which... who the hell knew what was going on in _his_ head; he'd been staring into the distance for at least the last two hours, not even seeming to notice that he was leaning into her slightly, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle, swaying in sync with every bump in the road.

If it were anyone else, she would have shoved them away, would have told them to get their shit together and get the fuck out of her space.

But after the last few nights, and their long hours on the back of the horse, she was getting kind of used to having him there.

Maybe _too_ used to it, though, given the fact that she'd woken this morning— after yet another disturbingly deep, restful sleep— to find herself sprawled across his chest, one leg hooked over his, practically _snuggling_.

A fact that he would thankfully never be aware of, given his tendency to sleep like a goddamn hibernating bear. A tendency she was damn grateful for, really, since the last thing she needed right now was him getting ideas about just why her unconscious body seemed to be drawn to his like a traitorous fucking magnet.

Especially since those ideas would only end up getting him hurt.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she pushed the thought out of her head. He'd probably just spent the drive thinking of all the things he'd been missing from back home, and how he'd celebrate once they made it back to the States. Or maybe he was thinking of all the friends and family who awaited him there, all the people who would be overjoyed to learn he was still alive, that they had gotten him back.

Like Sarah. She hadn't asked if he'd managed to get word to her or not, had been too caught up in her own family issues to even remember that he had someone who loved him, who had probably already been mourning him, believing him gone forever.

She wondered what that must feel like; to be loved, fully and unconditionally, and to love them back just the same, without reservation or restriction.

She knew Roman had loved her like that once, long ago— before Shepherd had driven her wedge, before Remi had saved her own soul at the expense of her brother's— but it had been so many years that she couldn't even imagine the feeling anymore, let alone actually _feel_ it.

And no doubt she never would again.

Which, really, was just fine by her, given that loving _anything_ only resulted in a weakness for others to exploit, something they could use to control you.

Shepherd had taught her that lesson early.

She hadn't realized how tense her muscles had become until she felt Weller's eyes on her, his gaze soft and concerned, his eyebrows lifting in silent question.

Because of course he'd fucking noticed. The damn man was like an emotional sniffer dog, and it drove her nuts.

Letting out a breath, she consciously unclenched her jaw, and had just given him a small nod of reassurance— because otherwise he'd just pester her— when the engine noise abruptly changed, and she felt the truck begin to slow.

She saw the look of controlled alarm flash across Weller's face, and they both immediately looked to Hashem, hoping for an explanation.

"They do not normally stop before Khiratalam," he said with a slight frown, confirming what they both already suspected.

_Orion_.

A moment later, the engine shut off entirely, and they heard the rumble of men's voices in what was undoubtedly English.

"What's our play?" Weller asked in her ear, his voice low, his body leaning into hers.

"Try to look as Afghan as possible," she whispered back, eyes on the end of the truck. "And if they see through it, pretend to surrender and then take as many down with us as we can."

"Roger," he muttered grimly. "With you 'til the end, Briggs."

Hearing the crunch of boots rounding the back of the truck, she reached out and gave his hand a brief squeeze, a silent promise. Then, as the canvas flap was pulled back, she let out a high, girlish shriek and turned her face into his shoulder, the very picture of a terrified wife.

"Identify yourselves," barked an American voice, as harsh and unforgiving as the desert that surrounded them.

"I am Hashem Yusafzai," Hashem answered with barely a waver in his voice. "This my son Ahmad, and Ahmad wife Sitara."

"You! I want to see your face," the man demanded, and she knew he was staring hard at Weller, less than three yards of space separating them. "Take off the turban!"

She could feel Weller's breath through the mesh of her veil, his face turned in close to hers as if reassuring his frightened wife. With her between him and the soldier, likely all that could be seen of his face was a glimpse of stubbled jaw, his deepened tan from their journey only serving to blend him in.

"Hey!"

"Very sorry. They do not speak English," Hashem told him, and she noticed that he had deliberately thickened his own accent, seemingly doing everything he could to make them seem like nothing but harmless rural folk.

"So tell him to look at me," the stranger ordered, and after a moment of hesitation, Hashem relayed the words in Pashto, clearly not trusting that the man didn't have some understanding of the language.

And with that, their one defense was gone, their time up.

Through the veil, Weller's eyes met hers, and she could see in his stark gaze that he was out of moves.

But she wasn't.

It wasn't much, the longest of long shots; but the moment she stopped trying to protect him was the moment she stopped breathing.

Until then, she'd play any and every card she had.

Taking care to continue blocking the man's view of Weller, she peeked over her shoulder at him— then, as if terrified by the sight of the rifle he held, she let out a cry and started to pray rapidly in tearful Pashto, begging Hashem to make the 'bandits' go away, rocking and clinging to Weller as if he were her lifeline.

Or more accurately, as if she was his.

"Please, you are scaring my daughter, she is to have baby, it is bad for her to be stress," Hashem implored, and Remi felt a sudden fierce surge of gratitude and respect for the man, for his quick thinking and his bravery. "We go to Khiratalam to see doctor. Please."

There was a heavy pause, then the man said, "Did you see any Americans in your village before you left?"

"No, Sirs," Hashem answered with an earnest shake of his head. "Only Afghans live there."

It was a risk; if Orion knew about Roman visiting the village, then Hashem's answer would instantly be known to be a lie. But to mention Roman would open up even more questions, and give the soldier even more reason to check their faces.

Keeping up her stream of whimpered prayers, Remi closed her eyes, and waited.

Then, suddenly, there was a new voice.

"Guys up front say they didn't see anything unusual at the village," the newcomer said, and she heard the faint scrape of metal as he leaned against the end of the truck. "Driver says that he's taking the village chief and his son and daughter-in-law to the city, something about seeing a doctor. That what you got?"

There was a grunt in reply— then, clearly hearing her distressed recitations, the new voice spoke up again, sounding both curious and teasing.

"What's up with her? She look at your ugly mug, Mac?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ames," the first man said, his irritated words followed by the heavy sound of the canvas flap being dropped back into place, its suddenness making both of them flinch, their grip reflexively tightening on one another. After several tense moments, they heard shouts for the truck to move on.

Within seconds, the engine roared back to life, and suddenly they were on their way again, the constant jumping and jolting now the most welcome sensation in the world.

Letting out a shaky breath, she allowed herself to sink against Weller for a moment, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her, holding tight.

"You're my fucking hero, Briggs," he whispered fiercely in her ear, then looked over at Hashem. "You're my hero too, Hashem. Thank you."

Automatically, she translated for him, and Hashem grinned widely.

"I am not Hashem! I am James Bond! This is James Bond movie!"

That drew a genuine laugh from Weller, who only then seemed to realize that he was still holding onto her, abruptly releasing his grip and letting her straighten up.

"We're not in the clear yet," she warned, mostly just saying it so she didn't have to acknowledge the flash of disappointment she'd felt when he let her go.

"But we're definitely far less in the shit than we were a minute ago," he answered blithely, clearly refusing to relinquish the afterglow of their escape. "One more hour and we're in Khiratalam, and one phone call away from Mayfair's contact. Compared to everything else, this'll be a piece of cake."

Not very long ago, her response to such blind optimism from anyone would have been harsh, full of derision and disdain. But not anymore; or at least, not with him.

"Hope you're right," was what she said instead, and he gave her a small nudge, his voice warm.

"Trust me, Briggs. I'm right. You'll see."

#########

He'd never been so happy to be right.

Barely more than an hour after their run-in with Orion— or more likely, whatever mercenaries Orion had hired to mop up their mess— they were entering the outskirts of Khiratalam, the small city seeming to teem with people; though that was probably more a reflection of his and Briggs' recent isolation than its actual population, which couldn't have been more than about ten thousand. Briggs herself was half-leaning against him, the position allowing her to stare through the narrow sliver of space between the canvas and the cab, her thoughts unfathomable behind the fine mesh of her veil as she watched the town go by.

He could feel the steadiness of her breathing, though, her body alert but without the rigid tension he'd felt in her earlier. Her shaking had stopped, too, not that he would ever acknowledge that he'd felt it at all. He knew she'd been afraid back there— hell, he'd been scared out of his goddamn mind— but still she'd refused to give in, instead finding a way to save his ass yet again, his debt to her now rivaling Everest in size.

A debt that he would happily spend the rest of his life repaying her for.

And, now that it seemed that they actually had a real shot of making it out of this alive, he might even have decades— rather than mere hours or days— to try.

"Make the call, Weller," she said, the unexpected sound of her voice making him jump slightly, pulling him from his thoughts. Tugging the sat phone out of the folds of his clothing, he obediently dialed Mayfair, who answered on the first ring.

"We're entering Khiratalam," he said quietly into the receiver, his eyes still on Briggs as he listened to Mayfair's clipped response.

"Roger," he replied, then hung up. "We'll have a location in two minutes."

For several moments she didn't reply, and then when she did speak, it was almost more to herself than him.

"It'll be a hospital, or medical center," she murmured thoughtfully, head tilted slightly downward, though he doubted she was seeing anything that lay in front of her. "No one would question a military vehicle delivering medical supplies to a regional outpost, and anyone witnessing two apparent Afghans leaving a hospital with the American forces would either be too preoccupied to question it, or would assume they had been hired to render some kind of medical service. Plus, hospitals take up space, so unless they're very old, they're often towards the edge of town, away from the most populated areas."

Looking to Hashem, she spoke briefly in Pashto, and he responded with a nod and a few short sentences, gesturing vaguely in the direction the truck was headed.

"There's a hospital here, on the other side of town from where we entered," she told him, relaying what she'd learned. "The truck should stop somewhere near the center of town and may go further, but if not, it would be feasible to walk the rest of the way."

For several moments, Weller just stared at her, aware that he was doing it but unable to tear his eyes away.

"What?" she asked defensively, and he didn't need to be able to see her to know the exact expression she wore; he could hear it in her voice as she added, "It's the most logical choice. It's what I would do."

Letting the smile spread across his face, he asked, "Anyone ever told you you got a real sexy brain, Briggs?"

There was a pause. "You've been out in the desert too long, Weller."

"Can't argue there," he replied simply, then heard the phone begin to chime in his hand, and immediately answered it. "Weller."

He could feel Briggs' eyes on him as he listened, then with a brief "Roger", he hung up.

For a moment he held her gaze, making her wait for it— then, he spoke a single word.

"Hospital."

Even with the burqa, he could easily picture the exact curl of her lips, the satisfaction at being proven right. But still, she didn't gloat, her voice all business.

"Time?"

"As soon as we can get there. A Lieutenant O'Callaghan will be meeting us. Mayfair vouches for him, says they go back a long way."

She nodded in apparent understanding. "Old flame?"

Amused, he shook his head. "Nah, not her type."

"Military?"

"Men," he clarified, the corner of his mouth twitching.

She didn't answer for a moment, but when she did, he could have sworn she almost sounded pleased. "Smart woman."

"Again, can't argue there," he said wryly, imagining that somewhere behind that veil was a smile that matched his own.

Not that there was any trace of it when she spoke again.

"So how will we mark him?"

"There's a hallway in the hospital that leads to a side entrance. He'll be waiting just inside it."

She gave a nod, then turned to speak to Hashem, no doubt asking if he had any knowledge of the hospital and its layout. They'd been speaking for a couple of minutes, their words accompanied by many gestures and nods, when Weller felt the truck roll to a stop, its engine abruptly cutting out.

He and Briggs glanced at each other, then at Hashem, who motioned for them to stay seated while he climbed out and talked to the driver. It was a long, tense minute before he returned, but when he did, it was with a smile on his face.

Hopping back into his previous seat, he spoke a few quick sentences to Briggs, who instantly relayed them.

"One of the driver's deliveries is right near the hospital. Once he's filled up with gas, he'll take us there."

Eyebrows lifting at the unexpected favor, Weller looked at Hashem. "Why is he helping us?"

This time, Hashem answered without needing Briggs to translate.

"For the baby."

Weller blinked. "What?"

"He told him the same story he told the soldier, about needing to see a doctor for the baby," Briggs explained, then tilted her head, her voice turning dry. "Hope you're ready to be a father, Weller, because we're pregnant now."

"Man, and here I was, thinking all those old tales of immaculate conception in the Middle East were all just made up," he exclaimed, eyes wide with mock disbelief.

Disbelief that turned real as something even more miraculous happened:

Briggs _laughed_.

It was a soft, fleeting sound, almost immediately stifled— but he'd heard it.

He'd made Remi Briggs laugh, and he felt like a fucking king.

The rumble of the engine restarting saved him from the impulse to crow over it and ruin the moment, so instead he just turned away so she couldn't see the dumbass grin that wouldn't leave his face.

Hashem could, though, and looked from one to the other with an expression that said he didn't need to be fluent in their language to know exactly what was going on here, an amused smile forming on his lips.

To Weller's surprise, the rest of the drive lasted barely more than ten minutes, the truck maneuvering carefully through the town, the crowded streets gradually thinning until only a sparse flow of pedestrians could be seen through the gap in the canvas. When it rolled to a stop, Hashem was quick to jump down, and with a swift glance at Briggs, Weller followed.

Holding up a hand to halt her at the back of the truck bed, he sent a wary look around them for anything suspicious, then looked up at her nodded. He didn't reach for her— to touch her in public would only bring attention they didn't need— but he kept his hand raised, ready to steady her if the unfamiliar layers of fabric impeded her.

Of course, he needn't have worried; she was on solid ground within seconds, moving as nimbly as if she regularly spent her leisure time doing obstacle courses while swathed in yards of fabric.

With a wave to the driver, Hashem led them across the large road, then down it the hundred yards or so to the hospital building. Careful to keep his light eyes down, Weller did his best to survey the building, knowing Briggs would be doing so with much greater ease and success beside him.

Neither of them flagged any threats on approach, so they followed Hashem through the main entrance, pausing in a quiet corner of the small foyer.

As Hashem quietly pointed out the layout to Briggs, Weller kept a careful eye on their surroundings. When a pause came in their conversation, he nudged her slightly, then nodded to the restrooms across from them. Without needing to question his meaning, she gracefully crossed the floor and disappeared inside, returning a minute later with a shake of her head.

Mimicking her path of only moments before, he walked over and entered the men's restroom, checking each stall for occupants. Trust Mayfair as they might, her contact was an unknown, and could easily have tipped off Orion as to their meet point. Finding the restroom empty, however, he took the opportunity to make use of it— who knew how much more traveling they had ahead of them— and then cautiously re-entered the foyer, seeing Briggs and Hashem exactly where he had left them, deep in quiet conversation.

As he rejoined them, Briggs seemed to finish whatever she was saying, her hand reaching out between them. With a warm smile, Hashem took it, holding it briefly in both hands before turning to Weller.

"So, we must say goodbye," he said, keeping his voice low, and Weller took his proffered hand with a smile.

"Thank you, Hashem. We owe you our lives."

"You were good son, Ahmad," Hashem told him with a grin, then glanced slyly at Briggs. "And you have very good wife."

Ignoring the completely ridiculous flutter in his stomach at the word, Weller focused only on showing the gratitude he felt, his words sincere.

"And you are a good man, Hashem. I wish you and your family good health and happy lives."

With a last squeeze of his hand, Hashem let go, then spoke a few words to Briggs. With a final nod, she moved past him, and Weller immediately followed her lead, keeping a half-step behind her as she led the way up a hallway. Only once did he glance back, seeing Hashem still where they had left him, watching them with a small smile and a hand over his heart.

In barely 24 hours, he'd been a better father figure to him than Weller's own father had ever been. Someday, he would find a way to truly thank him, to repay all that he had done for them.

But for now, he could only focus on what lay ahead.

Only a matter of moments later, Briggs held up a hand slightly, the two of them pausing just before the junction of two corridors.

"If Hashem's right, the side entrance should be down there," she said quietly, turning to look up at him, the two of them standing close.

"And so should O'Callaghan," he said, finishing her thought, knowing the concern that lay behind it.

Feeling her eyes boring into his own, he took a breath, then lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. "Gotta trust someone sometime."

For another moment, neither moved, their eyes locked.

Then, they both drew a breath— and together, they turned the corner.

#########

* * *

_Briggs is my hero too :P_

_But ugh I'm really sad to say goodbye to Hashem :( Bill Weller wishes he was *half* the man Hashem Yusafzai is..._

_Anyhow, another fun fact: I made up the name Khiratalam because I knew that if I decided to pick a real place, I would then undoubtedly spend far too long obsessing about the geography and topography of that region and whether it fit the story descriptions correctly lol. So a fake city it is! Though interestingly, I learned much later that in Urdu, Khira is a girl's name meaning Bright Eyes, and Talam is a boy's name meaning Who Attended Pain. Well, according to one baby-name website, at least lol. If only the names had been Dari or Pashto rather than Urdu, it would have been the perfect coincidence haha, but oh well. I'll just pretend that the city was named by someone from neighbouring Pakistan lol._

_Anyways, as ever, thanks for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

_Merry Wednesday, y'all :)_

_I yet again managed to leave editing this one until too late, which it punished me for by growing by almost 2,500 words (becoming the longest chapter yet!), which is why I'm posting this at 4:25am lol. Oops._

_ Hope you like it x_

* * *

#########

He made them almost immediately.

After all, no local would ever approach him with the determined stride and unflinching eye contact that they did.

Tall and graying, he stood at attention near the side door, and his first action upon spotting them was to lift a phone to his ear.

"Bethany. I've got them," Remi heard him say, and then he was holding the phone out, his gaze steady. "She wants to speak with you."

Weller reached him first; he'd been a step ahead from the moment they'd entered the corridor, the two of them instinctively positioning themselves so that his body had shielded hers while she'd watched their six, ready for any sign of ambush.

Eyes continuing to shift between the man before them and the corridor behind them, Remi stayed close to Weller as he took the phone, held it to his ear for a moment, then hung up.

"Name's O'Callaghan," the man said calmly, accepting the phone back with a nod. "I don't need or want to know yours, so don't tell me. Now, follow me. I've got a vehicle waiting."

Exchanging a brief, expressive look, they cautiously followed him outside, finding a humvee parked nearby, angled so as to be mostly hidden from the view of anyone on the main road.

"Here," O'Callaghan directed, opening the rear door of the humvee for them. "We'll be ready to go in a minute, my driver's just dropping the last couple of boxes of supplies inside."

As he spoke, Remi couldn't help glancing at Weller; the supply delivery cover was yet another thing she'd been right about. He acknowledged it with a twitch of his lips and tiny, rueful shake of the head, then gestured to her to climb into the humvee.

Lifting the folds of the burqa, she did so, and he threw her a wink as he chivalrously closed the door for her, an obvious attempt at lightening the moment. Except there was no escaping the truth, and they both knew it; just as they knew that they could be right now delivering themselves directly into Orion's hands, everything that they had endured together now counting for nothing.

Muscles taut, she watched closely as he and O'Callaghan rounded the vehicle and opened their respective doors, her tension only easing when Weller was settled in the other seat, the few feet of mostly-empty floorspace between them having no doubt held the now-delivered supplies.

"Now, my driver is under strict orders not to look at either of you, but I would still advise putting these on," O'Callaghan spoke up from the front seat, untying his shemagh from around his neck and reaching back to hand it to Weller, along with his sunglasses. "I trust my people, but Bethany requested the utmost caution, and I will respect that."

"Thank you, Sir," Weller said politely, and she watched him slip on the glasses before deftly wrapping the shemagh around his neck and the lower half of his face, his voice faintly muffled behind it. "We appreciate what you're doing for us."

"Only doing what's right," he answered bluntly, staring straight ahead out the windshield. "Seems like it's getting harder and harder to know what that is, these days, but this one at least was clear cut."

Neither of them had any response to that, so they all sat in silence for a minute before O'Callaghan twisted in his seat, nodding towards the hospital exit.

"There's Private Rees. It's a little over three hours back to base, and it would be best if you didn't speak during that time— the fewer people know that you're two of ours, the better. Help yourselves to the MREs and water there in the back, and if you need to stop for any reason, tap me on the shoulder and we'll figure things out."

Weller glanced at her, and she nodded, letting him speak for both of them.

"Understood, Sir."

A couple of moments later, the driver had climbed into his seat, and true to what the lieutenant had said, didn't even spare them a single backward glance.

"Back to base, Sir?" he asked, his voice putting him somewhere in his mid twenties, his accent faintly Southern.

"Affirmative," O'Callaghan answered, and for the next three hours, not a single word was spoken between the four of them.

Weller spent the majority of the time staring out the window, seemingly watching the afternoon light steadily fade into evening, the stars slowly spreading out above them.

For her part— aside from the occasional involuntary glance at Weller— she kept her eyes mostly on O'Callaghan, watching for any sign that he had another agenda, that he might intend to deviate from the plan he'd laid out; but she saw nothing, his demeanor calm and steady, his eyes rarely ever straying from the road before them.

Eventually, hunger dictated that she eat one of the MREs, but only after a careful examination to ensure that it hadn't been tampered with, that there was no way it could have been tainted or drugged, and even then she ate only as much as was absolutely necessary.

Weller, on the other hand— her overly-trusting, too-reckless Weller— had not only inhaled two MREs, but had also eagerly swigged from the bottles of water that she'd outright refused to even touch; although the fleeting glance he'd sent her as he'd done so had suggested that he'd known exactly what he was doing.

As did the fact that, after over an hour without showing any ill effects from what he'd ingested— something which had her more relieved than she would ever admit— he held out one of his half-empty bottles to her, his eyebrows lifting, his offer clear.

Annoyed by the faint glow in her chest that felt far too much like tenderness, she simply shook her head at him, and turned away.

When they at last approached the base, she felt her tension rising steadily, her hand curling around one of her knives, not that she had any real plan for how she would use it. During the drive, at least she'd known that the odds were well on their side, an aging officer and a fresh-faced private no match for two elite Orion-trained soldiers; but now, they were about to be wholly outnumbered, completely at the mercy of the lieutenant and his men.

Rescuer or captor— either way, they'd find out soon.

As they pulled up to the gatehouse and the driver rolled down the window, O'Callaghan simply leaned forward, making himself visible.

"Lieutenant O'Callaghan, Private Rees, and two medical assistants for Dr Scofield."

"Welcome back, Sir," was the only reply, and immediately the humvee was rolling forward again, the gates smoothly parting to give them access.

And then resolutely closing once more behind them, locking them in.

Exchanging a wary look with Weller, they both turned back towards the window, carefully memorizing all they could about the base's layout and occupants. After only another minute or so they pulled up in front of a long, low-slung building, and O'Callahan turned in his seat.

"You two. With me."

Keeping a cautious eye out as they exited the vehicle, she fell in step beside Weller, her arm brushing his as they followed the lieutenant into the empty building.

"This is the infirmary," he said over his shoulder, his stride confident as he led them down a pale corridor. His crisp military pace was nothing unusual, but she could feel Weller silently struggling beside her, his jaw clenched and limp steadily becoming more pronounced. She was on the verge of telling O'Callaghan to slow the fuck down when he abruptly stopped, gesturing to a plain door in front of them.

"These are the quarters for medical officers," he explained, then turned and directed his next comment at her. "This is Dr Scofield's room, where you will be spending the next few hours while I make arrangements. I asked her to lay out a spare pair of fatigues for you, and she said you are welcome to use any of her bathroom products you require. She'll be here in about an hour to tend to your injuries before you depart."

Nodding towards Weller, she kept her voice flat, carefully concealing her suspicion. "What about him?"

"The adjacent rooms are unoccupied at present," he answered, then looked at Weller, his gaze assessing. "You'll find some basic toiletries in the bathroom, and I will bring you a pair of my own fatigues, given we look to be about the same size. As for boots, I'll bring each of you a new pair. Sizes?"

Once they'd given them, he gave a curt nod, then turned even more serious. "The moment you're inside, lock your doors. Do not respond to anyone who is not Dr Scofield or myself. Understood?"

"Understood," they echoed, and she could hear in Weller's voice that he was starting to believe that this was really happening; that in a matter of hours they would be on their way home, that if they could just stay hidden until then, they would be safe.

Even after all he'd been through, he still hadn't learned what she'd grown up knowing: safety was nothing but an illusion.

"Good," O'Callaghan said, unlocking the door in front of them. Then, with a nod at her, he turned back to Weller. "Follow me."

Pushing the door open, she sent a swift glance inside, but stayed firmly in the doorway as O'Callaghan led Weller to the next door down the hallway, unlocked it, then gestured for him to enter.

Weller gave the room the same quick sweep that she had, then— with a last, long look at her, his gaze seeming to bore right into hers despite the veil between them— he disappeared inside, the door closing gently behind him.

Drawing in a breath, she stepped into her own room, then locked the door and leaned against it for a moment, eyes moving over every inch of the space before her.

It was small and simply furnished, with the ubiquitous neatness of all officers' quarters, yet here and there were little personal touches; an origami flower atop a book on the desk, a framed photo of a smiling couple with a young boy on the nightstand, a small silver trinket box on the dresser. On the bed was a neatly laid-out uniform, complete with sports bra and plain dark underwear, all of it appearing to be her size, or very close to it.

Moving over to the nightstand, she picked up the worn plastic frame and looked at the woman in the photo, the woman who had willingly given up her private space and her clothes to a stranger, the woman who was now entrusted with both their secret and their lives.

If the photo was recent, she was probably only a matter of years older than Remi herself, auburn-haired and beautiful, with hazel eyes and a warm smile. Her son had inherited both, resembling her more than his father, a handsome man with close-shaven dark hair and eyes almost the same piercing blue as Weller's.

Seemed like she and the good doctor shared a type.

Gently returning the frame to its place, she straightened and stepped back, eyes giving the room one last sweep before moving through to the bathroom, the sight of the shower feeling like a literal oasis in the desert. Carefully extricating her knives from their hiding places, she put them within easy reach, then immediately kicked off the delicate pointed shoes Nasrin had given her and pulled the burqa over her head, ignoring the faint protests of her battered muscles.

Then, she turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it, and stepped under the spray.

When the knock came at the door, she was the cleanest she'd been in days— or months, probably— her skin scrubbed and shaved, her hair fluffy and smelling like some kind of flowers. Freshly dressed in the borrowed fatigues and new boots, she put a hand to the knife in her waistband and approached the door, looking cautiously out the peephole.

Just as she recognized the face on the other side, the woman spoke up. "It's Dr Scofield, may I come in?"

Opening the door, Remi stepped back. "It's your room."

"True, but you're my guest," she responded, then tilted her head slightly, a trace of empathy entering her gaze. "And from what I gather, you've earned a little bit of peace and privacy."

Seemingly knowing she wouldn't get a reply, she stepped over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind her before walking over and depositing a large medical bag on the desk.

"Like I said, I'm Dr Scofield, but you can call me Sara," she said, leaning against the desk, her manner both friendly and professional. "I'm sure you're not eager to share your name, so I won't ask for one. Instead, I'll just ask how I can help you."

"I'm fine," Remi replied curtly, crossing her arms over her chest and nodding towards the next room. "You should go next door, he's the one who needs medical attention."

"That's funny," Sara answered with a small smile, "I actually did stop there first, but he said the same about you. Wouldn't let me even look at him until I'd seen to you first."

Irritated, Remi muttered, "He's got a chivalry problem."

Even with her eyes on the floor, she could sense the other woman's amusement, her smile clear in her voice. "I know a man like that."

"Does he drive you completely insane too?" she asked bluntly, the words leaving her mouth before she could stop them, her annoyance breaking through.

"Every single day," the doctor confirmed wryly, nodding to the picture on the nightstand. "We've been married six years."

At that, silence fell between them for a moment, her irritation shifting into something else, something less familiar.

"He's back in the States?"

Sara nodded, her voice deliberately even. "They both are. Six more weeks and I will be too."

Looking away, Remi shifted uncomfortably. "Must be hard."

"Being separated from the one thing that actually makes existing in this fucked-up world somewhat bearable?" she asked dryly, then gave a faint huff. "Yeah, I wouldn't recommend it."

Surprised, Remi shot her a glance, then yanked her eyes away just as quickly, afraid of what the doctor might read in them.

Sara didn't seem interested in trying to analyze her, though; instead, she just let out a small sigh, eyes staring unseeingly at a spot on the floor.

"Guess we better get down to business, anyway. Your counterpart mentioned that you took a bad shrapnel wound to the thigh— anything other than that that I need to look at?"

"No," she replied, but it was just a little too quick, a little too firm. God, she used to be a better liar; damn Weller had her out of practice.

Clearly unconvinced, Sara said nothing; just raised an eyebrow at her and waited.

Sighing, Remi relented. "Likely a couple of cracked ribs, but nothing major. A few shallow cuts here and there. Otherwise, it's just plenty of superficial abrasions and bruises. I got off easy."

"I would hate to find out what you consider getting off hard," Sara answered, her voice droll. With a small shake of her head, she turned to grab her medical bag, then gestured towards the bed. "Do you mind lying on the bed so I can look at your thigh? I can put a towel down if you're worried about mess, but personally I'm not."

For a moment Remi hesitated, giving her one last measuring look, then silently moved over to the bed, making sure to position herself close to the edge to give her easier access. Unbuttoning her trousers, she shoved them down far enough for the wound to be clearly visible, but not so far that she couldn't yank them back up and move fast if she needed to; while her gut told her that the doctor didn't pose any danger, there was no knowing what new threat might come through that door, and she had to be ready if it did.

Coming over, Sara deposited her med bag by the bed, then gave a low whistle as she took in the wound.

"Didn't realize I was in the presence of a walking miracle," she said, clearly impressed. "How big was the piece that got you?"

Remi shrugged slightly, her shoulders brushing against the covers. "A little under three inches wide, about a foot long."

"And a fraction of an inch from causing you to bleed out in a matter of seconds. Pulling it out must have been a hell of a terrifying ordeal."

It had been; but for Weller far more than her. For him, removing it meant possibly losing her; for her, it meant potentially saving him.

Even then, the decision had seemed simple. Now, she knew she would make the same one a thousand times over.

"Look, this kind of injury should ideally be thoroughly washed out in the operating room," Sara said distractedly, pulling her sharply from her thoughts. "But at several days down the track there's basically no point, because the healing is already well underway, and any dirt that may have gotten in there isn't going anywhere now. I'll give you some antibiotics as a precaution though—"

"Had some already," Remi interrupted. "We had our squad's med kit, and had enough Cephazolin for a few daily shots. We only ran out this morning."

"Well, that explains the strange lack of you dying from sepsis," Sara answered with a wry smile. "Still, I'll give you some tablets to take for a week or so, just to be safe. As for the stitches, they seem to have held pretty well for the most part. Were they yours or his?"

Remi looked away, trying not to picture him with his head bent over her thigh, his touch warm and gentle as he slowly put her back together. "His."

"I'll be sure to compliment him on them. You've popped a couple of them, but at this point in the healing there's no real point in replacing them, so I'll just throw a few steri-strips over those gaps and put some new dressings over the top, and then we can check out all the other bumps and scrapes. Now, for painkillers—"

"Don't bother. I don't need anything."

For a moment, Sara looked like she wanted to argue, then stopped herself with a sigh. "You sound just like my husband. I would try to change your mind, but I can already tell there's really no point."

Then, letting the subject drop, she simply gathered her materials and got to work, her touch light and efficient. After a few silent minutes, Remi cocked her jaw slightly, her eyes remaining determinedly fixed on the ceiling.

"When you go next door, he'll turn down the meds too," she said quietly, willing her voice to be completely neutral, unaffected. "Change his mind."

Pausing in her task, Sara looked up at her, her expression all too knowing.

"Understood."

#########

He'd forgotten how good it felt to be clean.

He was pretty sure he'd washed almost an entire desert's worth of sand down the shower drain, not to mention all the dirt and dried blood, but finally, after over half an hour of scrubbing, the water had flowed clear again.

O'Callaghan had stopped by while he was in the bathroom, leaving the fatigues and boots he now wore, and only minutes ago the doctor had knocked at his door, medical bag in hand.

He'd sent her to Briggs first; her injuries were worse, and if they had to evacuate here suddenly, he wanted to know that she'd gotten the care she needed.

Busying himself with putting away the shaving supplies he'd found in the medicine cabinet, he wondered how Briggs was doing right now— had been wondering it since pretty much the moment she'd left his sight, really, even though thinking about her while in the shower had not exactly been his best idea.

Especially when he'd been far too aware that she was also likely showering at that very moment, only one room away.

And okay, so maybe she'd had a point about him having been out in the desert too long— but she'd also somehow missed the _real_ point, her normally too-perceptive eyes still not seeing what he'd long given up on trying to hide.

That was, unless she _had_ seen it.

Unless this time, it wasn't his life that she was protecting, but his heart.

Christ.

By the time the next knock came, he was lying on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling; he'd run out of things to tidy up a while ago, and pacing had really started to hurt his knee, so he'd attempted to take a nap.

An attempt that had been doomed from the start, apparently, neither his body nor his mind able to relax without her there beside him.

At the knock, though, he was on his feet in an instant, and— hearing the doctor's soft voice outside— he quickly unlocked the door, standing back to let her in.

"How is she?" he asked immediately, knowing how pathetic he probably sounded, and not at all caring.

"Annoyed that you sent me to her first," she replied frankly, crossing the floor to set her bag down on the end of the bed.

He let out a huff. "Sounds about right."

"Otherwise she's good. You did a good job on those stitches," she told him, her words and smile both genuine. "She'll have an impressive scar, of course, but her muscle function should be unaffected."

He hadn't even realized that was something he'd been afraid of until he felt the sheer relief that spread through him at her words.

"That's good. Thank you, Doctor."

"Oh, just call me Sara," she answered with a vague wave of her hand, already unzipping her medical bag with the other and fishing around inside.

Well, at least that would be easy to remember.

"Now, as for you," she said, turning back to him, her expression shifting into one of mock-seriousness as she looked him up and down. "Your partner gave me a whole list of injuries to check out. And honestly if it's at all accurate— which I'm sure it is— then I'm on her side about you sending me away."

"I thought doctors were supposed to be impartial," he said quickly, feeling suddenly sheepish.

She arched a brow at him. "You're thinking of judges."

Grinning crookedly, he tipped his head in acknowledgement. "Could be."

Something shifted in her expression as she took in his goofy grin, her eyes moving over his face with a look that was part amusement, part understanding, and part something else that he couldn't quite pin down.

"Oh boy," she said with a small shake of her head, seeming oddly entertained by something. "I mean I got it from the start, obviously, but now... god, I bet she never stood a chance."

Confused, his smile quickly turned into a faint frown, but she cut him off before he could ask the question that she'd clearly seen coming.

"Nevermind, I'm getting off track, and we really need to get moving if we want to have you ready in time," she said quickly, turning and pulling something out of the medical bag, speaking again before he had a chance to respond.

"So, first things first," she began, adopting a businesslike tone, holding up two bottles of pills in turn. "These are antibiotics. These are painkillers. You will be taking both regularly when you leave here. No arguments, and first dose happens now."

Well, at least _this_ was familiar territory; four days in close quarters with Briggs had taught him a lot of things, not the least of which was how to recognize when to just shut up and do as he was told, particularly when faced with a woman who was aggressively trying to look after him.

Already certain that Briggs herself had had a role in this command, he simply sighed and reached for the bottles, dutifully swallowing a pill from each before stowing them both in a deep pocket.

"Good," Sara said approvingly, then gestured towards the other side of the room, clearly having entered work mode. "Now, while you're up and about, let's see you walk. I want to see what's going on with this knee."

She had him walk back and forth across the room a couple of times, then directed him onto the bed and bent his knee up, pushing and pulling and twisting this way and that, always watching for his reaction. Finally, she was satisfied.

"I think you've got a partial tear in one of your cruciate ligaments, but with a bit of physical therapy and some common sense, you most likely won't need surgery. It'll be several weeks before you're back to anything resembling your normal strength and function, though. I've got a brace here that should help, but like I said, it'll take time."

He nodded; he'd suspected something along those lines, but he was glad to have the official verdict. "Understood."

Once the brace was fitted, she glanced at the faint remnants of the burns to his lower leg. "Those burns look like they're healing up well."

"Yeah, I've barely noticed them," he answered; in truth, he'd forgotten they were even there. "The fatigues took the brunt of it."

"Alright, then I think it's time we see to these chest wounds," she said, hand lifting in an 'up' motion before she grabbed her bag and rounded the bed, pausing near his shoulder.

Sitting up, he pulled off the outer layer of his fatigues, then the tan t-shirt, then lay back again, staring up at the ceiling. He liked the doctor; she had a sense of humor, and was intelligent without being condescending, but— despite the fact that she was probably barely older than he was— there was also a motherly kindness about her that reminded him just a little too much of Emma.

Emma, who right now believed he was dead, that the world had now taken away both her daughter and the man she'd treated as a son.

First chance he got, he was going to set that right.

The sound of the doctor blowing out a heavy breath pulled him abruptly back to reality, his eyes flicking to her face, seeing her wearing a surprisingly somber expression.

"Well, I see why she was upset," she muttered, almost to herself.

"Sorry?" he questioned, frowning faintly at her. Did she mean Briggs was upset now? Or before? She'd definitely gotten pissed at him when she'd first seen his wounds properly, but surely between the stitches and the antibiotics, they should be all pretty well healed by now.

Shouldn't they?

Blinking, Sara glanced at him with something almost like surprise, then tapped lightly on the skin beside one of the cuts.

"This top one here probably came _this_ close to piercing your subclavian artery. Thanks to the collarbone and first rib in the way, it's nicely protected, but if it does get sliced, there's no stemming the flow from that bad boy. Either you would have turned into a human fountain, or it would have all flowed straight into your chest cavity and your heart would have given out in minutes without you spilling more than a few drops."

Well, okay, that wasn't great, but her explanation still hadn't made anything any clearer.

"So if there would have been no chance of fixing it anyway, why was she mad that I didn't tell her about it straight away?"

She paused for a second, throwing him a look as if he were missing something extremely obvious, but evidently decided not to comment.

"Any issues with any of these wounds?" she asked instead, looking them over with a critical eye.

"No," he said slowly, still staring at her. "Tore just those few stitches, but given some of the shit that happened over the last few days, I'm shocked I didn't lose more."

"She did well," Sara agreed, tilting her head as she looked closely at the stitches. "It's the best suturing I've seen by anyone that wasn't a doctor."

His chest warming with something that felt stupidly close to pride, he couldn't help but smile a little. "That doesn't surprise me at all."

"Alright, I'll pop a few steri-strips and a new dressing in place," she said, then lifted an eyebrow at him. "And once that's done, I want to hear about that head injury of yours."

A bit over twenty minutes later— after a thorough grilling about his concussion, and an even more thorough examination of his brain function— he at last met with her approval, receiving the all-clear. She was just putting a fresh dressing over the wound on his temple when there was a knock at the door, followed immediately by O'Callaghan's voice, requesting entry.

"You're all set," Sara said, then rose and crossed the room to open the door. Glad that she'd allowed him to put his shirt and jacket back on before she'd started checking his brain, he quickly got to his feet, then stood at attention as O'Callaghan entered the room.

Except his focus was immediately hijacked by the sight of Briggs following right behind him, dressed once more in fatigues and looking clean and whole and completely perfect.

She'd only been hidden away behind the burqa for a matter of hours, but god, he hadn't realized just how much he'd missed seeing her face.

For a brief second, her eyes met his, and he could almost convince himself that he saw a flash of relief in her gaze, her eyes flicking over him in that assessing way that was slowly becoming familiar, his chest filling with a sudden warmth that was _definitely_ familiar. Realizing that his face was probably loudly broadcasting his feelings to everyone in the room, he immediately adopted a serious expression, his voice steady and professional as he turned to O'Callaghan.

"What's the plan from here?"

O'Callaghan met his gaze squarely. "There's a cargo plane due to depart shortly which has had a last-minute destination change to Stewart Air National Guard Base in upstate New York, courtesy of our mutual friend. You two will be on it."

Without giving him a chance to reply, he directed his next question to Sara. "Are they needing anything further from you, Dr Scofield?"

"No, Sir," she answered, then turned to them with a somewhat mysterious smile. "Good luck, both of you. Stick together, and look after each other."

"Yes, Ma'am," they answered in unison, and though he knew that Briggs had likely just given the response purely out of respect, he couldn't help feeling a small flutter at her instant agreement.

"Then it's time to go. Follow me," O'Callaghan ordered, then turned and strode out. With a final, hurried thank you to Sara, they fell in step behind him, exiting the building through a different entrance than the one they had come in.

Parked immediately outside the door was a small, lightweight jeep, and O'Callaghan gestured for Weller to get in the driver's seat.

"I can't be seen chauffeuring a pair of lower ranks, so you're driving. And you're getting in the back and keeping your head down," he said, turning to Briggs. "We're shorter on women than we should be around here, and I don't need anyone noticing and remembering you."

"Yes, Sir," they answered, immediately moving to obey.

"There's a bag beside you which contains supplies for your journey," O'Callaghan said when they were all in their seats, and Weller glanced back, seeing Briggs pulling the olive-colored duffel towards herself as the lieutenant spoke again. "Now, let's get moving. We don't have a lot of time."

Starting up the jeep, Weller followed O'Callaghan's directions as he guided them across the base to a large hangar, parking them by a side entrance and immediately killing the engine.

Meeting his eye, O'Callaghan opened his door. "Wait here."

For a few moments, he watched the older man as he rounded the jeep and disappeared through the doorway, then twisted in his seat to look back at her, seeing her staring at the hangar door with a pensive expression.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly, partly because it was a question he always wanted the answer to, and partly because he just wanted to talk to her, all too aware that these were the first actual words they'd exchanged in hours— since they were all the way back in that hospital corridor, a moment which somehow felt like both a hundred years and a million miles ago.

Blinking, she looked over at him, her voice dry.

"I'm thinking that I barely recognize you without all the blood and dirt all over your face."

He grinned, then tweaked an eyebrow at her. "Hey, I'd like to think that this is an improvement."

She shrugged, her tone and expression giving away nothing. "Maybe. Shame about the stubble, though."

His malfunctioning brain was saved from trying to figure out if Remi Briggs had just actually _flirted_ with him by the sight of the lieutenant reemerging from the hangar door, his body briefly backlit by the bright fluorescent lights before he carefully closed the door behind him.

"The plane is loaded and ready to go, so here's what's going to happen. In the plane's cargo bay there is a decommissioned humvee that is to be shipped back stateside. While I keep the pilots occupied, you two are to enter the bay and take up position in the humvee. It's a sixteen hour journey, and it is imperative that the pilots do not learn of your presence, so you must remain inside the humvee at all times unless in desperate need of the latrine. Understood?"

Controlling his expression, Weller nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. Give me a sixty second lead, then get yourselves into that cargo bay and hidden away."

"Yes, Sir," Weller repeated. "Thank you, Sir."

Surprisingly, something almost resembling a smile formed on O'Callaghan's face, the harsh lines softening slightly. "Good luck, soldiers. And give Bethany my regards."

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the hangar, and they both glanced at their watches. Letting out a breath, Weller stepped down from the jeep, joined a moment later by Briggs with her bag of supplies, the two of them standing side by side, facing the door in silence.

In a matter of moments, they would go through that door, make their way up into the cargo bay, and then hide in the humvee.

That would be the easy part.

The hard part would be spending the next sixteen hours completely alone with Briggs in a confined space, with absolutely nothing to distract him from the fact that he was fucking head over heels in love with her.

"Ready?" she asked quietly, the final seconds ticking down.

Not in the fucking slightest.

Straightening his shoulders, he nodded.

"Ready."

#########

* * *

_Well, this should make for an ~interesting~ trip... can't wait to torture you all with the UST next week hahahahaaa_

_So ngl, the doctor is literally just a slightly AU version of Dr Sara Scofield (previously Dr Tancredi) from Prison Break, who is one of my favourite characters of all time. So if you didn't like her, please be nice and just don't tell me haha. (Though I mean how can you not love her when she's clearly just as much a shipper of these two as we are? lol)_

_Also yes btw Emma is alive in this timeline, bc firstly with Shepherd's plan to masquerade Remi as Taylor not existing in this story, there is no reason for Emma to be murdered, and secondly I am just totally a member of the Emma Shaw Deserved Better Club, okay? You can also find me in the Jane Doe __Deserved Better Club, the Kurt Weller __Deserved Better Club, the Patterson __Deserved Better Club, the... you know what, it'd be easier to list the characters who *didn't* deserve better, AKA basically the "Bill Weller/Shepherd/Keaton/Carter/Hirst/etc Can Go Rot Club". Feel free to join._

_Anywho, very sorry, that was a lot more sass than I was expecting to sign off with haha... but I'll just blame the early hour lol._

_Thanks for reading!_


	13. Chapter 13

_Welcome back, all. Hope you're all safe and well in your respective corners of the world. I'm all good here, but it's been a busy week, hence the late posting. (Plus this chapter decided to more than double in size from the draft. Sigh.)_

_Today's a pretty special milestone, btw_—_ I've now been posting this story for three entire months, and many of you have been right here since day one, which is honestly amazing. You guys are the best._

_Enjoy x_

* * *

#########

After the darkness outside, the lights of the hangar were all but blinding, the harsh white glare leaving nowhere to hide.

So they didn't.

Instead, they strolled in like they had every right to be there, nothing but two regular soldiers following orders, just like everyone else. With chins up and shoulders straight, they crossed the distance to the plane in perfect sync, their pace steady but unhurried, their manner confident and relaxed.

She hadn't bothered to discuss the approach beforehand; hadn't needed to.

She'd known he'd be right there with her.

True to what the lieutenant had said, the hangar was empty of any personnel, and the silence echoed around them as they moved, unbroken by any calls of alarm or shouted commands to identify themselves, only the muted rhythm of their footfalls betraying their presence.

Even at their mild pace, it took barely more than half a minute to reach the base of the ramp, then half that again to reach the humvee, the two of them parting wordlessly around it to approach each of the rear doors, eyes and ears alert. As expected, the vehicle was strapped up and ready for transit, with all windows covered and doors secured, but they worked in tandem from their mirrored positions, swiftly disengaging the rigging which held the rear doors tightly shut.

A moment later, they each pulled the handle and slid inside, their doors closing simultaneously with a soft _thunk_.

And then suddenly there was nothing left to do, no plan to follow, nothing to focus on.

Nothing ahead but sixteen hours in limbo, waiting in their little hidey-hole until they were finally back on US soil, returned at long last to the land of the free and the home of the fucking corrupt.

Sixteen hours with Weller barely more than a few feet away, literally within reach.

Fuck.

Letting out a small sigh, she dumped the bag of supplies into the empty space between them— the gap where equipment and munitions would normally be stored, but apparently she'd been been deprived of even that barrier— and immediately closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the headrest.

"So far so good," Weller commented quietly, and she deliberately ignored the statement, hoping he would just settle in and leave it at that.

He didn't. "Do you think we were spotted?"

"Don't know, don't care," she grumbled, not bothering to open her eyes. "Nothing we could do about it anyway."

He must have picked up on her tone— something he was uncomfortably good at, though at least in this case it worked in her favor— because he fell silent, and the next thing they heard was the grinding and squealing of the rear hatch of the cargo bay rising up into position, the sound seeming to echo all around them. A moment later the faint rumble of the engines rose into a dull roar, and she felt the humvee shudder slightly as the plane began to taxi toward the runway.

"Looks like we did it, Briggs," he said once they'd been trundling along for a minute or two, and even with the engine noise she could hear the smile in his voice. "Finally on the home stretch."

Home? She hadn't had a home since she was a naive child with two living parents. The US might be the country on her passport, but for her, it was just more foreign soil. _He_ was the one with the home, the family, the place where he belonged.

Once this little journey of theirs was over, he would have all of that back.

And she would have nothing.

Thankfully, she was spared of any further attempts at conversation by the growing roar around them, the plane accelerating steadily towards takeoff. Focusing her attention on breathing evenly, she kept her posture carefully relaxed, determined not to let him see the tension that gripped her muscles as the plane finally lurched into the air.

Fuck, she hated flying. She'd hated it long before their crash, only ever comfortable if she was the one behind the controls, her fate in her own hands.

Right now, she didn't know which part she hated more; being back in the air less than a week after the fiery clusterfuck that had been her last flight, or the fact that she was currently having to trust both her life and Weller's to two pilots of unknown skill and experience, one or both of whom may even be on the payroll of the very organization that was trying to kill them.

Though given some of the shit they'd been through over the last few days, this was just par for the fucking course, really.

Needing a distraction her thoughts— and from the faint but persistent jolting and shuddering of the ascent— she propped a foot up on the seat in front of her and slowly started untying her laces, taking her time loosening each one before slipping her boot off and starting on the other, seeing Weller bend to do the same out of the corner of her eye.

If they were going to spend sixteen hours stuck sitting in here, they may as well make the most of whatever small comforts they could get.

Especially since she got the feeling that this flight was going to be anything but comfortable.

Several minutes later, they finally leveled out, the roaring engines reducing to a low droning sound that she already knew was going to drive her nuts.

To her complete lack of surprise, Weller's silence lasted barely another minute, his body shifting to half-face hers.

"So, Briggs, anything you're looking forward to when we get back? I can't _wait_ for a cold beer."

There was a deliberate lightness to his tone that she'd come to know well in the last few days, her mind instantly recognizing his casual comment for the invitation that it was.

All she'd have to do was say that she was also looking forward to a drink, and he would offer for them to go get a round together sometime, a toast to their survival. He'd already promised to buy her one, after all, so it was only fair.

She already knew that that's how it would go, could picture it as clearly as if she'd already lived it.

Just as she knew exactly how any night where they got drinks would inevitably end.

Hell, she knew she could skip the middle steps and have him right now if she chose. There was no doubting that he wanted her; before the crash, she'd suspected it, though he'd almost always hidden it well, only the rare unguarded look giving her any indication.

But after the crash, it was in practically every look and touch, his formerly solid defenses steadily disappearing until it was almost impossible to pretend she didn't see what was right there in front of her.

And even harder to pretend that she didn't feel it too.

If she'd thought for even a second that he'd be capable of a no-strings-attached arrangement, she'd have been on him the moment the humvee doors closed behind them, finally giving in to her body's demands and satisfying an urge that she'd spent five long months ignoring.

Unfortunately for both of them, however, any arrangement involving Weller would come with more strings than a fucking orchestra, which is why she wasn't going to lay a finger on him, no matter how badly she might want to.

And _fuck_, she wanted to.

But the last few days had also made her want _other_ things— despite how fucking hard she'd tried to convince herself that she didn't— and those things were dangerous.

For both of them.

Because she didn't do relationships; had never looked for any kind of connection beyond the physical, knowing that anything more than that only fucked you over, only gave people a way to hurt you. Or for you to hurt them.

And Weller was the last person she wanted to hurt.

"Briggs?" he asked after another long moment, her persistent silence clearly making him uneasy. "You alright?"

"It's been a hell of a few days, Weller," she answered tiredly, exhausted in ways she had no experience with. "I don't really feel like talking."

"Understood," he replied quietly, but she could hear the disappointment in it, the confusion and the concern.

Turning her face away, she pretended to be trying to sleep, but instead listened as he carefully reached into the bag and pulled out an MRE and a bottle of water, obviously trying to be as quiet as possible. A few minutes later, she heard the crinkle of a foil blanket being slowly unfolded, then felt it carefully draped over her, only a lifetime of control preventing her from giving any flicker of reaction.

Of fucking course he would still be trying to look after her, their time together only seeming to amplify his boyscout ways to a ridiculous degree. Compared to the near-freezing conditions they'd faced during their nights in the desert, the temperature in the hold was nothing to complain about, but still cold enough to be fucking uncomfortable, especially for sixteen straight hours.

And unlike in the desert, she wouldn't have him to keep the cold at bay— so he'd given her the next best thing.

God, she hated him sometimes; hated his unfailing kindness, his endless capacity for goodness and compassion.

Or maybe it was herself that she hated.

Hard to tell.

After another brief moment— one where she was irrationally convinced she could feel him watching her— there were more crinkling sounds as he pulled out a blanket of his own, then briefly shuffled around in his seat, and fell silent.

The faint snores followed not long after, the sound all too familiar to her now.

Now that there was no danger of him catching her, she turned her head and simply looked at him, his face shadowed in the dim light that leaked through the window coverings. With his expression softened by sleep and his skin freshly shaved, there was an almost boyish quality to his features, an innocence and a peace that suited him, far more than the harshness of war ever had.

Unlike her, who had practically been bred for war and revolution and bloodshed, with all innocence long since lost, and no hope of ever knowing peace.

Back in the infirmary, it had occurred to her that she'd never actually seen him clean-shaven before— unlike the official branches of the military, Orion didn't give a shit about facial hair, so she'd only ever known him with stubble or the short beard that appeared during their multi-day ops. She hadn't known just how much she liked it that way, any musings on how it would feel under her palms or between her thighs normally so quickly suppressed that they barely registered as conscious thought.

Until tonight, apparently.

Not that she should have ever given him any indication of that; even if what she'd said had only been a mild compliment, it was still thoughtless, and dangerous, especially given that they were still going to be working together, seeing each other every day at the academy.

The fucking _FBI_ academy, of all places.

When she'd first told Roman she was going to join the FBI, even she hadn't been sure if it was true or not.

At the time, it had seemed like the perfect way to punish Shepherd; after all, she'd accepted a place in Orion for much the same reason, believing that there was only one revenge better than fighting for a cause that wasn't Shepherd's, and that was dying for it.

Weller had been interfering with those plans from the very start— her reckless risk-taking at first neutralized by the eagle-eyed way he'd watched her back, and then by the steadily growing need to watch his— but it was only in the days since the crash that he'd made her see the truth, even if he'd been completely unaware of what he was doing.

Yes, her death would have robbed Shepherd of her proudest creation and most prized possession, the intended figurehead of her revolution— but she'd already had eleven years to shape another, the desertion of her prodigal daughter only delaying her war, not preventing it.

But finally, Remi had known what could.

Finally, she'd known that the greatest revenge would be to live; to use the skills and training Shepherd had given her, not to destroy the flawed system her foster mother hated so much, but to help salvage it.

She hadn't been able to deny that there was a part of her— the part that Shepherd had spent close to a decade trying to beat out of her— that truly was drawn to the thought of it, the chance to be a part of something that aimed to better the world, not break it apart. The chance to pay for some of the things she'd done, and to maybe even earn some kind of redemption, not that she could ever deserve it.

But underneath all of that, shoved deep down where she wouldn't have to acknowledge its existence, had been another reason for choosing the FBI.

Because there was a part of her— a small, soft, hidden part— that just wasn't ready to leave _him_.

Still, during her brief time out in the desert alone— for once without him there to distract her— she'd genuinely considered the idea of catching a ride to New York on the FBI's dime, and then vanishing into the wind first chance she got, starting afresh wherever the hell she wanted.

Free of Shepherd and the role she'd been raised to fill, free of the demands of commanding officers and corrupt governments, unshackled at last and answering to no-one but herself. It was what she'd wanted when she'd left the compound at eighteen, what she had spent the last eleven years chasing; and, thanks to Orion and the account she'd planned for Roman to inherit, she had the money to make it happen.

In those two hours, she'd _almost_ talked herself into it; convincing herself that her own freedom was worth more than any revenge on Shepherd ever could be, that she could simply walk away from Shepherd's fight without ever taking up arms on either side.

And convincing herself that both the FBI and Weller would be better off without her.

That part had been easier; after all, she'd already known it was the truth.

But then she'd seen his face when she'd walked back into the village.

If he'd looked at her like that after being apart for barely two hours… disappearing forever simply wasn't an option.

Or at least, not now; not yet.

Instead, she would just keep doing what she'd done for the last four days— stick by him, and watch his back. Not for too long; just enough for them both to make it through Quantico, then to find him a team that he could trust, one that would be able to watch his back for her.

By then, he'd have found his feet, and would almost certainly have given up on thinking of her as anything more than a teammate, maybe even have met someone to look at the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention, someone who would actually let themselves look back.

By then, he'd have started building the life he'd told her he always wanted, and her job would be done.

And when that time came, she'd do exactly what she'd done with the only other man she'd ever cared about: leave a note, and disappear.

Blinking away the sudden burning at the back of her eyes, Remi drew an uneven breath, then forced herself to turn away from him, willing her body to sleep.

It was a long time in coming.

##########

Something was wrong.

He just had no idea what the hell it was.

When she'd shut him down at the start of the flight, he'd figured she was just tired, or hungry, or both— and honestly, given all the shit they'd just gone through, he could more than understand her wanting a little peace and quiet.

But that had been several hours ago now, and she still wouldn't even look at him.

She'd clearly gotten at least some amount of sleep, since she'd still been out when he'd finally woken, but it wasn't all that long before she was awake again as well, ignoring him in favor of opening up one of the MREs.

Honestly, it reminded him a little too much of the old Briggs, the one who had always been so determinedly cold and unreachable, keeping everything and everyone at a distance.

Him included.

He couldn't help the small, irrational flare of panic that rose in his chest at the thought, suddenly fearing that their connection— their _partnership_— was somehow over already, discarded now that it was no longer required.

But then he reminded himself about Alice Kruger.

About the kiss.

About how hard she'd always fought to keep him alive, and the look in her eyes when she'd thought she'd lost him.

Not to mention the _other_ looks she'd given him, the fleeting glimpses of heat— or, even more incredibly, of tenderness— that had sometimes flashed behind her eyes when she looked at him, as if her formerly impenetrable walls had cracked just enough for them to slip through in rare unguarded moments.

Or maybe he'd just been imagining it this whole damn time.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Weller held back the weary sigh that longed to leave his lips, instead turning a little more to face the blacked-out window. A faint headache was forming at the base of his skull, and he almost wished it was another concussion instead, just so she'd feel obligated to talk to him again, so he could maybe have a chance to find out what was really going on inside her head.

Only moments before they'd entered the hangar, she'd seemed fine. A little distracted, maybe, but at least she'd still talked to him like nothing had changed. Or hell, maybe even like it was changing for the better— he'd have sworn she'd actually _flirted_ with him for a moment there, though more likely he'd just heard what he wanted to hear, reading more into her throwaway comment than was actually there.

Either way, something had _definitely_ changed since then— and whatever it was, it was bad.

Maybe, now that they weren't actually facing immediate danger for once— a luxury they pretty much hadn't experienced since the moment the chopper went down in flames— she'd started thinking about some of the things they'd been through, started actually processing some of the shit that they'd previously barely even had a chance to react to because they'd been too goddamn busy just trying to stay alive.

Maybe it was the fact that their own fucking employer had tried to murder them, and would most likely try again, no matter how far and fast they ran.

Or maybe it had to do with her brother, and how he'd turned his back on her right when she'd needed him, literally abandoning her in the desert because she'd refused to help their foster mom with… whatever the hell it was that she was trying to do. Toppling empires, taking over the world, who the hell even knew.

Honestly, even one of those things would be more than enough to haunt anyone, even someone as practically invulnerable as Briggs was. To his shame, he found himself desperately hoping that they _were_ haunting her; that either or both were the cause of this sudden shift, of her cold silence and dark mood.

Because if not, then there was only one other explanation he could think of.

With their time with the FBI now fast approaching, maybe it was only just now sinking in that she'd signed on to be part of something that she'd never wanted, something she'd been forced into purely due to the threat of Orion hanging over her head— and now that she was faced with the reality of what she'd agreed to, she was starting to feel trapped, like she'd simply traded one cage for another.

God, he wished he could ask her; wished he could know what battle she was fighting so he could fight it with her.

Even if that meant helping her be free of the FBI... and of him.

But the last thing she'd said to him was that she didn't want to talk, so he just bit his tongue and waited, doing his best to give her space.

Well, as much space as was possible between two people literally sitting within arm's reach of each other, the air so thick with things unsaid that he was finding it hard to breathe.

He made it almost another two agonizing hours before he finally cracked.

"Briggs—" he began, unable to hold back any longer, the silence driving him out of his mind.

"I'm going to use the latrine," she said abruptly, cutting off the desperate question that had almost made it past his lips, and a second later she'd gracefully slipped out of the humvee, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

Letting out a quiet groan of frustration, he fought the urge to open his own door and keep watch— he knew the pilots were almost certainly shut up in their enclosed cockpit at the far end of the plane, but that did nothing to ease his anxiety, his jaw clenching as he tried not to count the seconds ticking by.

By the time she finally reappeared— both a few minutes and an eternity later— he'd half-convinced himself that she'd been discovered and that they were already in the midst of rediverting to an Orion base, his desperate eyes fixing on her the second she opened the door, her body sliding back into the seat as silently as she'd left it.

No doubt she was hoping he'd forgotten whatever he'd been about to say, or had taken what was undoubtedly a pretty clear hint that she had no interest in conversation.

Well, as usual, he was about to disappoint her.

Drawing a deep breath, he turned to face her, just barely managing to keep the pleading note out of his voice.

"Talk to me, Briggs. What's going on?"

She stiffened, her gaze fixing on the seat in front of her. "Nothing."

It was the lie he'd been expecting; but he hadn't expected the faint tremor that lay beneath it, the emotion that she hadn't quite managed to hide.

Judging by the sudden, tense set of her jaw, she hadn't expected it either.

Shit. Now he really couldn't let it go, even if whatever he was about to find out was going to hurt him.

Because right now, it was hurting _her_— and if there was any chance of fixing that, he would take it.

"Is it the FBI?" he prompted quietly, trying to suppress his dread. "Have you changed your mind about joining?"

"No," she answered, and there was no hesitation in it, no sense of deception or uncertainty that he could detect.

"You sure? Because if it's not what you want, I'll talk to Mayfair," he assured her quickly, meaning every word, even as he wished he didn't have to speak them. "I won't let anyone force you into anything."

"Save your breath, Weller," she said bluntly, arms crossing tightly over her chest. "I'm joining."

Maybe he only believed it because it was what he wanted to hear; maybe she was actually a better actor than even he knew, and was just throwing him off the scent so there would be nothing to stop her from slipping away after they landed.

But he knew that wasn't the case.

Because he knew _her_; knew her heart, even if she sometimes tried to pretend she didn't have one.

Which meant she was telling him the truth.

For a moment, he simply let himself get lost in the relief that flooded through him, the knowledge that he hadn't yet lost her. But he also knew he couldn't stop now, couldn't face the idea of spending the next several hours sitting here helplessly while she suffered silently beside him, barely three feet away but still entirely out of his reach.

"Then what's wrong? Is it about your brother?"

Something shifted in her expression, but it was gone so quickly he couldn't decipher it, couldn't tell if he'd guessed right. When she spoke a moment later, her voice was cold and hard as steel, completely devoid of emotion; the lie almost believable this time.

"I told you, it's nothing."

_Almost_ believable, but not quite.

"Briggs—"

"For fuck's sake, Weller," she snarled suddenly, turning on him with eyes ablaze, her words making him flinch. "Leave me the _fuck_ alone."

"Right. I'm sorry," he said after a second, his voice quiet. He couldn't help but feel the sting of it, even as he knew it was justified; after all, she'd warned him to back off, and he'd kept pushing. Ending up a little bruised was entirely his own fault.

Clearing his throat, he shifted in his seat, turning away from her. "I should use the latrine as well. I'll be right back."

Cautiously opening the door, he checked for any sign of either of the pilots, then climbed out and shut the door without looking back, his steps careful as he slowly picked his way between the various-sized crates stored all around the hold, making sure not to get caught up in the netting that secured them. Reaching the cramped bathroom, he gave one last glance towards both the humvee and the cockpit, then squeezed inside, locking the door behind him.

Letting out a breath, he leaned against the wall for a few moments. When he'd thought earlier that this trip would be torture, he'd had a completely different reason in mind— one he now knew he would have happily suffered through a dozen times over if he'd known that _this_ would be the alternative.

Fuck, he missed the village. And the desert. He missed listening to her talk about the stars, missed the simple physical closeness of their hours on Ed's back, missed learning all her favorite things. He missed the deep sleep that came with being wrapped up in her, the surprising warmth and gentleness of her rare touches, the tiny twitch of her lips when she was trying not to smile at something he'd said.

She was right there beside him, and he _missed_ her.

With a small sigh, he bent down and splashed water on his face, then quickly made use of the toilet, not daring to stay outside the safety of the humvee for more than a few minutes.

It may not be a particularly peaceful sanctuary, but all that mattered was that it would help get them home alive.

Battered and scarred in more ways than one, but alive.

Fortunately, the coast was still clear when he cracked open the bathroom door, so he quickly but quietly made his way back to the humvee, resolving to keep his fears and his questions to himself from now on, to respect her obvious desire for space— or, more accurately, her obvious desire to be as far from him as possible right now— no matter how hard it might be, and how much he was going to hate every minute of the next several hours.

Great.

Quietly opening the door, he avoided looking in her direction as he settled back into his seat, the click of the door latch sounding ridiculously loud in his ears.

And then there they were once again— together, but more separate than they'd been since the moment their eyes had found each other though the smoke, the two of them surrounded by the burning ruins that had been their lives before.

Together, but somehow still alone.

For a long moment there was silence, a grim prelude to how the rest of the trip would undoubtedly pass— and then, unbelievably, Briggs broke it.

Shoulders hunched, she spoke without looking at him, a heaviness in her tone that he hadn't expected.

"I'm sorry."

Controlling his instinctive reaction— stunned delight didn't seem like the right choice right now— Weller gave a tiny shrug, his voice carefully neutral. "Don't worry about it. You've got every right to keep things to yourself, and I'm sorry I didn't respect that."

She said nothing to that, and for a minute or so he was sure that that would be the end of it, already accepting that this slightly uneasy truce would be as far as they would get for now.

But, as always, she kept surprising him.

"It's not nothing," she admitted quietly, as if the words were difficult for her. "But I'm not gonna talk about it, okay? So for once stop trying to fix everything, and just... be here."

There was something in her tone that made him pause, his throat suddenly a little tight, his eyes on her averted face. He may not understand what the hell was going on, but he was finally realizing that he didn't need to.

He just needed to have her back.

Letting out a breath, he simply answered, "Okay."

Watching her, he saw the tense set of her shoulders ease slightly at his response, and then a moment later she pushed herself up a little straighter, her body shifting so she was sitting sideways in her seat. Now that she was facing him, he could see her hesitate for a second, then finally lift her eyes to meet his through the gloom.

For a long moment they simply looked at each other, and he found he was finally able to breathe easy again, the thoughts and anxieties that had been filling his head since the start of the flight all suddenly disappearing, as if she was the only remedy he would ever need.

And he was realizing that there was a part of her that needed him too.

Maybe not in the same way, or to the same extent, but it was there.

"I'm going to try to sleep as much as I can, and so should you," she said eventually, and for the first time since they'd entered the hangar she sounded like her usual self. "With the time difference it'll be almost dawn when we land."

Carefully suppressing the tangled mix of of emotions that were swirling in his chest, he nodded in agreement, then paused for a second before lifting his brows in question.

"Want a footrest?"

For a moment she just looked at him, her expression completely unreadable, and then— just as he was deciding whether she would simply refuse, or roll her eyes at him and _then_ refuse— she gracefully swung her feet up into his lap, pulling her blanket over her before leaning into the seat, her body shifting slightly to get comfortable.

Through it all, he didn't dare move, scarcely believing what was happening.

With her eyes closed, she spoke up, voice dry. "If your legs go dead, just remember, you offered."

"I'll keep that in mind," he answered, glad she couldn't see the ridiculous smile that was spreading across his face, knowing that a bit of pins and needles was a price he would happily pay. Then, feeling suddenly brave, he rested a hand just above where her fatigues ended at her ankle, his touch feather light, ready to pull away immediately if needed. "Okay with you if I put my hand here?"

"Don't care what you do," she yawned, pulling her foil blanket more securely around her shoulders. "Just don't wake me."

Grinning, he pulled his own blanket up a little, making sure her feet were covered; then, he let his body settle at last, enjoying the warmth of her legs on his, the tiny strip of bare skin beneath his palm. It was the simple sense of connection that he'd missed so much during the last however many hours— and for the first time since they'd boarded the plane, he had no desire for the flight to be over, for them to be free of the cramped confines of the humvee.

Because once they were, he would have to let her go.

Within only a couple of minutes, her breathing had evened out, her muscles loosening and face softening in sleep. For a long time he simply looked at her— he knew that it was probably bordering on creepy and that he should probably stop, but he couldn't help but feel that this was the last time he would ever witness her like this; relaxed and unguarded, free of the walls that usually stood between her and the rest of the world. It seemed that for a brief time at least, he'd somehow found his way behind them, had gotten to glimpse the real her.

But once they landed and this whole journey was over, who knew what would happen. Sure, she'd said she was still coming to the FBI, and he believed that she meant it; but even if she did, it wouldn't be the same. After tonight, she wouldn't need him anymore— she'd have the FBI's protection, and without the constant threat of assassination hanging over their heads, she'd almost certainly go back to her lone-wolf ways, which was clearly the way she preferred it.

And even if she didn't, well, once they were at Quantico and people saw what she was capable of, she'd have the pick of other recruits to ally herself with, all with far more to offer than he did.

Obviously, he didn't think she'd forget him entirely, but he couldn't see a reason for her to bother bestowing him with anything more than a passing nod once they were back to the real world. He couldn't imagine she would be comfortable having him around, knowing that he knew things about her that no one else did, that he had seen her at what she would consider her weakest and most vulnerable.

It wouldn't matter that her 'weakest and most vulnerable' was actually ten times stronger than most people at their best— he'd still witnessed parts of her she never let anyone see, and as a result, would probably be held at even more of a distance than most from here on out.

If he were a braver man, he'd take matters into his own hands to try to prevent that distance forming— like actually _asking_ her out for a celebratory drink, rather than just vaguely alluding to it and hoping that she'd take it from there, which had clearly not gotten him anywhere. Maybe if he asked outright, she'd actually say yes— and then once he had a couple of beers in him, he might even get up the courage to ask her to dinner. Or to a movie, putting it down to the fact that she'd seen so few and deserved an introduction.

But he already knew there was no point. She may have come to care for him as a teammate and even as a friend, but that was all, and to hold onto a hope for more would only set himself up for unnecessary pain.

Sometime since the start of the flight, he'd accepted that; had accepted the inevitable truth that their first kiss would also be their last.

Still, there were things she deserved to know, and if he didn't tell her before they landed, he may never again have the courage— or the opportunity— to do it.

So when she woke, he'd tell her the truth, even if it meant making the rest of their journey awkward, even if she never saw him in the same way again.

He owed her that much; hell, he owed her far more than that.

But for now, they had time— for now, he'd just do what he usually did, and follow her lead.

The truth could wait a few more hours.

#########

* * *

_Just when y'all thought we were past all the angst lol... nope, sorryyyy! Ugh my poor pining idiots, how they suffer... _

_Tbh, this was probably the hardest chapter of them all to write, because as you saw, it was literally just endless introspection with a couple of bathroom breaks thrown in haha. Writing Remi thinking so openly about her emotions etc was particularly difficult, because aside from the immediate aftermath of his fall from the cliff, she's generally had her feelings regarding Weller pretty well locked down— partly bc there was a whole lot of other stuff to be focusing on, but partly bc ~Denial~ lol. So it's only now, when all the distractions are gone and she's faced with the rapidly-approaching end of their time together, that she is able to actually stop and try to figure out what the hell it is she's actually feeling. (At least, I hope that's how it came across lol)_

_And ugh poor Weller, so confused, so sad, so in love. What could he possibly be planning to tell her? Maybe it's what you think... and maybe it's not. Who knows? See you for our final instalment next week to find out!_

_Thanks for reading! xx_


	14. Chapter 14

_Well, here we are for the final installment. I'm sad. (And nervous. And excited? I don't even know lol). Sorry for the couple of days' delay, there was a lot of work to do on this chapter (the draft was 4,400 words and ended up at over 11,000 lol) and this week didn't give me a lot of time to do it._

_Anyway, unlike all the others, this one is a three-parter_—_ because while this story has always belonged to both of them, the real journey has been Remi's, and it felt only right that what started with her should also end with her._

_So, here goes._

_Thank you all so much for sharing this with me._

_x_

_(__Warning: mention of suicide) _

* * *

#########

One hour.

One more hour until they set down in the States; until they were officially under the protection of the FBI, supposedly out of Orion's reach at last.

Except she didn't really believe that. The FBI had power, but it couldn't be everywhere, and she'd been one of Orion's dogs for long enough to know that whatever it hunted, it caught.

After all, she'd often been the one doing the catching.

Which meant that she already knew the truth: the FBI was a start, but there was only one way for Weller to be truly safe, and that was if she struck first.

So she would hunt the hunters; she would find them, and she would make them pay.

And she would make sure none of them could ever hurt him again.

Even if it cost her life to do it.

Feeling the subtle tightening of his fingers on her ankle, she flicked a glance at his face, seeing it shadowed by the faint frown that she'd already known would be there, her eyes lingering until it softened away a moment later, his body slowly relaxing once more.

She'd already learned back in the village that Weller frowned in his sleep; had seen the deep creases that marred his brow after she'd finally extricated herself from his hold and carefully risen to her feet, somehow finding herself unable to walk away until he'd settled, his troubled expression at last smoothing back into the simple peace of deep sleep.

It was only in the past hour or so that she'd discovered just how often that tension gripped him, though, his expression repeatedly turning grim, his mind clearly haunted by dark dreams.

Which, of course, was more than understandable; hell, they certainly hadn't had any shortage of nightmare material lately.

And yet there was a part of her that couldn't help but wonder if maybe it wasn't the trauma of the last few days that pained him now, but something else entirely.

Or _someone _else.

She'd hurt him, before. She'd seen it in his face the moment she'd told him to leave her alone, heard it in his voice as he'd made his hasty retreat. She hadn't meant to do it, but he'd just kept _pushing_, and her control had already been stretched so fucking thin from the battle she'd just spent hours— or days, depending on how honest she wanted to get— fighting within herself, that she'd finally just snapped.

She'd been so busy trying to keep him at a distance to prevent him from getting hurt, and she'd ended up just hurting him anyway.

God, she hated it; hated that there was now no right choice before her, no way to get both of them out of this unscathed, the scars they would leave on each other all but inevitable.

Push him away, hurt him now. Let him closer, hurt him later.

Fuck.

She should never have let them become anything more than the near-strangers they'd been before the crash; should have done the smart thing and kept her distance from the start.

But she'd been too soft, somehow unable— or maybe, secretly unwilling— to just ignore him the way she'd done before, not when he was right there beside her with his eager questions and his gentle hands and his eyes that looked at her with far too much fucking tenderness to be fair.

And so for the first time in her life, she'd let her guard slip just a little— and now, she was paying for it.

Because that tiny chink in her armor had been enough for him to somehow sneak through, to get past her defenses and take up residence behind them.

And now, they were both well and truly fucked.

Holding back a sigh, Remi pressed her fingers to where the ache was forming between her eyebrows, her restlessness growing. Since she'd woken over an hour ago, she'd been embarrassingly content to just stay as she was and wait out the rest of the flight in peace while he slept, but the closer they got to landing the more agitated she felt, the end of the journey they'd shared suddenly all too close.

Because the moment the plane touched down, this brief closeness they'd shared would be over. Not only the emotional kind, but even just the simple physical kind that existed between them right now, her feet in his lap, his hand a warm weight on her ankle, both of them comfortable enough with the contact to be able to sleep easily and deeply. There was something in the utter innocence of it that resonated deep within her, the feeling wholly unfamiliar but also somehow not awkward or unwelcome, and she didn't understand it at all.

Aside from sex, she'd never really sought out the touch of others; in fact, she'd usually actively avoided it, generally finding it irritating at best and suffocating at worst.

But his was neither— and she would miss it, far more than she should.

Which was exactly why it was better to put a stop to it now rather than later; she'd already allowed it for far longer than she ever should have, and there was no reason to let it continue.

No reason she was willing to acknowledge, anyway.

Eyes on his face, she held her breath as she gently eased her legs off of his lap, trying not to wake him.

No luck.

"Remi?" he asked groggily, and she grit her teeth at the sound of her first name on his lips. "You okay?"

"Everything's fine, Weller," she told him quietly, annoyed at the sudden huskiness in her voice. "Go back to sleep."

Grimacing slightly, he lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Should be a bit after 0330 hours in New York," she answered, not bothering to check her watch for something she already knew all too well. "We've got a little under an hour to go. I'll wake you closer to landing if you want to get some more sleep."

"Nah, I'm amazed I even managed to sleep this long," he said, straightening a little in his seat. "But thanks."

Uncomfortable under his gaze, she shifted so she was facing forwards once more, trying not to think about how much warmer her feet had felt a minute ago.

When he spoke a moment later, she could hear a yawn in his voice, making her fight one of her own. "Have you been awake for a while?"

"Just woke up," she lied, knowing that the truth would expose her in a way she was not at all comfortable with, given that she'd only now pulled away from him.

Thankfully, he was too preoccupied to notice the lie— or maybe had heard it and just decided not to acknowledge it, who knew.

"Mmmm," he hummed, the sound low and warm, a rustle coming from his direction as he stretched. "Gotta say, after the last few days, I needed that."

God, she missed the previous mornings they'd shared, where he couldn't wake up and get away from her fast enough. This sleepy, contented Weller was fucking with her head.

And with other things.

After another minute or so, he seemed to be fully awake at last, leaning down to rummage in the duffel bag, pulling out a fresh bottle of water and an MRE before glancing up at her.

"You want anything?"

"Yeah, I'll take the same," she responded, more out of the need for something to focus on rather than out of any actual hunger or thirst.

Because hell, the close confines of this flight had given her plenty of both, but of a very different and very unwelcome kind.

Immediately handing over the bottle and MRE packet he held, he pulled out more for himself, the two of them simply eating in silence for several minutes.

It was the first time on the flight she'd almost felt the same easy companionship they'd shared out in the desert, and to her surprise, she found she was actually even enjoying it.

And then he started to speak.

"Hey, Briggs, there's something I gotta tell you."

His voice was steady, unaffected, but alarm bells were already ringing in her head, and fuck, she couldn't do this now, she _really_ couldn't do this now—

"Weller—" she began sharply, but he just spoke over her, clearly determined to get it out.

"I nearly killed myself when I was sixteen."

She froze, her breath suddenly sucked from her lungs, her protest dying on her lips. Taking advantage of her stunned silence, he forged on.

"I was already at the army academy," he explained, his voice quiet but even. "I'd thought that being there, away from my father, would help me deal with everything— with what had happened to Taylor. But being away was just as bad, because now I wasn't there to look after Sarah. I used to sneak out of the academy to go check on her, because I was so scared he would hurt her too. And I hated myself for not being strong enough to stay and protect her."

Eyes locked on his face, she watched him draw in a deep breath, which was something she couldn't quite remember how to do.

"So, uh, I had a particularly bad night, and I got really close to ending it. Really, really close. But I couldn't deal with what it would do to Sarah. So instead I pushed myself harder and harder at the academy, and then the moment I could enlist, I did."

Shrugging a little, he went on. "I figured it was a pretty good solution— either I got to live my life as far from my father as possible, or I died in a way that would hurt Sarah least. Better to be a fallen soldier than a coward, right?"

He glanced at her then, and there was something all too knowing in his eyes, like he knew just how well she understood what he was saying.

Thankfully, though, the look lasted only a second, his gaze soon returning to his hands where they rested in his lap, his thumb idly brushing over the calluses that covered his knuckles.

"I lived that way for years," he said calmly, "Not actively chasing death, even trying to avoid it when I could, but okay with the idea of it finding me if I couldn't. In the meantime, I tried to find ways to do good, to protect or help others like I should have for Taylor. Then I met Mayfair, and she gave me a way to do that on a bigger scale, an actual purpose. I guess I thought that helping her take down Orion and then going to work for the FBI would be a way to pay for what my father did, to balance out the evil he'd put into the world. I pretty much lived for the mission and not much else."

He paused, eyes lifting once more to hers— and she couldn't move, couldn't look away, trapped by what she saw in his gaze.

"And then I met you," he said, his voice steady, but laced with a gentleness she hadn't been prepared for. "And I'm not saying the world suddenly became sunshine and rainbows because it didn't. It was just… it was the first time I'd felt that maybe there could be more out there for me than just the mission, that I could have an actual life rather than just being a cog in the machine. I don't even mean that I'd seen that life _with_ you, because I knew right from the start that _that_ was never going to happen, but I don't know... I guess it's just like you were the key that unlocked a door I never would have been able to pass on my own."

For another moment, he held her gaze— then finally he looked away, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

Clearing his throat, he added, "So, uh, I guess I just wanted to thank you."

Heart racing, she stared at him, completely overwhelmed by the storm of emotions raging inside her until one rose above all the rest.

"Fucking hell, Weller," she snarled abruptly, the spell broken at last. "You can't just _say_ shit like that to me."

Suddenly needing to be as far away from him as possible— because if she didn't put some space between them _right fucking now_ she was going to do something they'd probably both regret— she abruptly exited the humvee, barely pausing to send a fleeting glance around the cargo bay before heading swiftly for the bathroom.

He didn't follow; she hadn't expected him to.

Safely behind the locked door of the bathroom, she seriously considered not leaving this spot until they were about to land, instead just staying put and waiting out the time they had left. It wasn't a completely terrible plan; if one of the pilots discovered her now, she'd just hold them at knifepoint and force them to land, or if she had to, incapacitate them and land it herself. It'd be difficult, yes, but certainly not impossible.

But then again, it had been years since she'd last flown something of this size, and she couldn't be sure that she wouldn't somehow fuck it up, potentially getting all of them killed in the process.

Okay, fine, so probably better to just stay out of the pilots' way.

Plus, she knew Weller would come looking for her soon enough, and would never let her stay somewhere so exposed, no matter how mad she might be at him.

So she just needed to find a new plan.

After allowing herself a few more quiet minutes in the bathroom, she silently slipped out, making her way through the various pieces of cargo to the humvee— except she didn't stop, didn't even bother to open the door and tell him her intentions. Instead, she just kept moving past it towards the back of the plane, a moment later finding a suitable spot between a stack of crates and the far wall, one that was well hidden from the sight of anyone near the cockpit.

It may not be as secure as the humvee, but it was the next safest spot, and a perfectly reasonable place to wait for landing.

She'd already spent several minutes there, eyes closed and breathing slow, before she heard the approach of tentative footsteps.

Without opening her eyes, she spoke bluntly. "Go back to the humvee, Weller."

His answer was given steadily, calmly, but that didn't stop her from hearing the faint strain that lay behind it. "I came to tell you the same thing."

Opening her eyes, she saw him standing several feet away, his eyes glancing nervously towards the front of the plane, clearly feeling exposed. She could tell he was trying to keep a respectful distance from her, but in his current position he was directly in the line of sight of anyone exiting the cockpit, so after another brief moment of hesitation— and a wary look at her— he reluctantly moved to stand before her, where the crates would block them both from view.

For a second he just stood there, staring at the ground, his body angled away from hers as if trying not to crowd her. Then, he let out a small sigh, his voice quiet, subdued.

"Look, Rem— Briggs. I'm sorry for making things weird, and I swear I won't say another word about it. You can pretend I'm not even here, if you want. Just come back to the humvee. Please."

Lifting her eyes to his averted face, she saw the unhappiness there, the struggle he was clearly trying hard to hide.

And fucking _hated_ it.

"Does Sarah know?" she asked suddenly, the question surprising even herself. But if he just had _someone_— someone he could trust, could lean on...

"No," he said, then paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to continue. "I've never told anyone. I never wanted anyone to know about that side of me, that... darkness. But I knew that you would understand. You're the one person I ever wanted to know the real me."

He was right; she did understand.

She understood what it was like to feel broken, unsalvageable, unfit to exist in the same space as people who weren't contaminated by the evils of the world. This whole time, she'd thought _Weller_ was one of those people, still somehow untainted despite all he'd been through, too pure to be subjected to any kind of connection with someone like her.

But now, she understood him— and, she was finally realizing, _he_ understood _her_.

He always had. He'd known from the start what was inside her, because he'd recognized it from himself.

He knew she was broken, and he still wanted her.

"Fuck," she hissed, the sound escaping through clenched teeth. Dragging a hand across her face, she looked away, swallowing back the frustrated groan that built in her throat. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

God, she was so fucking tired. She was tired of fighting wars she'd never wanted any part in, whether on the battlefield, or within herself.

She'd been fighting her entire fucking life, and she just couldn't do it anymore.

"What?" Weller asked cautiously, clearly concerned by her response, but she ignored him, instead shoving her fingers through her hair as she tried to focus, to force herself to _think_.

She could run. There was still time; she could get back into the humvee and just stop acknowledging his existence until the plane touched down, then tell Mayfair and the FBI to shove it before disappearing into the wind the first chance she got, just like she'd considered back in the desert.

She could run, could go so far and fast that she'd become nothing more than a bad memory, another ghost of his past that would fade with time.

Yeah, she could run.

Couldn't she?

Dropping her hand, she forced herself to look at him, seeing the confusion and worry that creased his forehead, seeing the hand that hovered in the air between them, reaching for her without him even seeming to be aware of it.

She didn't know why it was that outstretched hand that did it, that broke the final tenuous defense that she'd been clinging to, her last hope of saving him.

But it did, and now there was no hope for either of them.

Because she _couldn't_ run from this, from him. But she couldn't fight it, either.

So she did something she'd never done before in her life.

She surrendered.

"When all this goes to hell, just remember who fucking started it," she growled, then took a swift step forward, feeling the faintest prickle of stubble under her palms as they bracketed his face, pulling him down into her, her lips meeting his with all the hunger and fire and need that she'd been denying for so fucking long. As ever, he was right there with her, his flicker of surprise instantly giving way to a heat and intensity that stole her breath, his arms banding around her, all but eliminating the space between them.

It wasn't enough, though; releasing his face, she wrapped her arms around tightly around his neck, only the thought of his wounds keeping her from pressing closer still. Caught up in it, in him, she forgot the pilots, and Orion, and all the reasons why she'd tried so hard to keep her distance, no longer giving a single shit about any of it. Instead, she just let him surround her, his body steadily crowding hers back until she was pressed up against the crate, trapped within his embrace, the only prison she would happily endure. Pushing herself up on her toes, she took advantage of their new fit, rolling her hips into his and feeling him jerk a little in response as she deepened the kiss still further, no longer holding anything back.

And neither was he. His large hands shifted continuously, running over her body as as if he couldn't get enough of her, and god, she wanted those hands on her skin. Now, and as fucking many times in the future as she possibly could. She wasn't used to anyone having this much power over her; not used to being so out of control. For once, Weller was the one with the upper hand; scraping her nails across his scalp, she enjoyed the shudder that ran through him, only to be wracked by a tremor of her own seconds later when his lips tore from hers to press hot, greedy kisses to her neck and jaw, somehow finding the exact spots that worked for her. Or fuck, maybe _he_ just worked for her.

With anyone else, she would have swallowed back the moan that rose in her throat, but she was done trying to hide what he did to her, what she wanted him to _keep_ doing to her. His response to it was instant; there was the faintest stutter in his breathing, then his mouth was once again covering hers, hot and urgent and possessive, as if she would never be anyone's but his.

And even in her near-mindless state, she suddenly knew the truth, knew it with more certainty than she'd known anything in her life.

He was right.

#########

Holy fucking shit, _Remi_.

Her name repeated itself on an endless loop in his head as he all but clung to her, kissing her like he'd die if he didn't, which to be honest was pretty much exactly how he felt. Because _j__esus christ_ how had he even survived the last five months without this, without having every inch of her body practically molded to him, without the fierce but needy way her lips moved over his, the taste of her in his mouth like the antidote to every possible poison.

He'd never even dared to dream it could be like this— and fuck, he'd dreamed about it plenty— had never really let himself believe that she could ever be his.

But now, he believed.

And god, he was pretty sure she might even be starting to believe it too.

Which was why it was even more insane that he was the one to finally break it off, her small noise of protest almost destroying his already-shaky resolve as he reluctantly forced himself to pull away, his arms tightening around her as his forehead lowered to rest against hers, their breathing rapid and uneven.

"Please, god, tell me that's not the only time I'll get to do that," he rasped, fingers clenching in the back of her fatigues like if he could just hold on tight enough he'd actually get to keep her. "Because I think hearing that just might kill me."

He felt her hold him a little tighter in response, but she said nothing, her silence pressing a cold blade of fear into the center of his chest. One that was abruptly forgotten only seconds later, though, all thoughts immediately replaced by a sudden and way-too-belated realization.

"Shit, your ribs," he blurted, worry flooding through him as he abruptly released her. "Was I holding you too tight? Did I hurt you?"

Seeming almost amused, she let out a tiny huff that feathered against his lips, then lifted her head a little, her eyes meeting his.

"Relax, Weller. I'm fine," she told him, a heat in her eyes and a huskiness to her voice that had him desperately wanting to lean back in and claim her lips all over again, to pick up where he'd so foolishly made them leave off. But he couldn't let himself, because he was convinced that if he got lost in her now, there would be no holding back for either of them, and fast and hot and dirty in a cargo bay was not exactly what he had in mind.

No, what he had in mind would require both a bed and a near-endless amount of uninterrupted time.

God, he hoped she had that in mind, too.

Despite the fact that he'd completely let her go, she'd made no move to separate from him, so he tentatively put his hands back on her waist, still barely believing he was allowed to be touching her like this. Honestly, there was still a part of him that was convinced that it couldn't be true, that everything that had just happened between them was actually some kind of 'What happens in Vegas' type thing, and there would never again be any mention of it the moment the plane landed and they stepped back out into the real world.

But she knew how he felt, he was sure of it, especially since he'd all but told her back there in the humvee and then again only a matter of minutes ago, even if he hadn't used the exact words. And he knew her well enough by now to know that she would never deliberately hurt him, would never play with his emotions like that.

Which meant that this— whatever this was— must be real.

Holy shit.

When he'd come looking for her, he'd only cared about convincing her to go back to the shelter and security of the humvee, his nerves already completely shot from just the matter of minutes that she'd spent outside of it. And yet now he wanted nothing less than to be back in there, where he would have to let her go, would have to endure the empty space between them, even if it was only a few feet.

But it was the safest place for them to be, and nothing had ever mattered more than keeping her safe.

Letting out a small sigh, he forced himself to focus, shooting her a rueful look. "I hate to say this, but we should really get back in the humvee."

"And the boyscout is back," she muttered under her breath, so quietly he wasn't even sure he'd heard it.

"What?"

Shaking her head just a fraction, she started to loosen her grip, her voice wry. "Nothing. Humvee it is."

"Wait," he said suddenly, halting her. Arms still draped around his neck, she met his gaze, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Swallowing back an unexpected flutter of nerves, he glanced at her lips and back again, seeing the heat that still simmered behind her eyes.

"Can I just—" he began, his half-asked question completed by the way he carefully leaned in, his eyes on hers, moving slow in case her answer was to say no or pull away. But instead she just watched him silently, her face tilting fractionally to his, her eyes fluttering shut half a moment before their lips met. This time, there was none of the desperate heat of the last kiss, no blazing wildfire to hide behind, just... them.

Even with the almost-affectionate way she'd been looking at him, he still hadn't been sure if she would be interested in _this_ kind of connection, or if hot and heavy and complication-free was all she was after— but now she seemed to soften under his touch, the kiss gentle, lingering, all tenderness.

Christ. If there'd ever been a point of safe return for him, he'd well and truly passed it now.

Though he couldn't help but think he might have passed it the day he met her.

He'd meant to keep it short, purely brief and exploratory, but he hadn't accounted for the way she would melt into him, or the way his arms seemed to forget how to let her go. If it had been an option, he'd have contentedly stayed exactly like this forever, but unfortunately the real world didn't work like his dreams, and eventually she drew back just a fraction, her nose brushing his cheek, her breath warm on his lips.

"Humvee," she reminded him, her hands leaving the back of his head to slide down his chest, the pressure feather-light over his wounds.

"Humvee. Yeah," he mumbled distractedly, fighting the urge to chase her lips, instead forcing himself to release her and take a step back. Blinking, he let out a slow, centering breath, then gestured for her to lead the way, expecting her to smirk at his unsteadiness— but instead he found her looking almost as shaken as he felt, her eyes wide and stark with something that he couldn't quite decipher.

As if realizing he was trying to read whatever was in her gaze, she looked away quickly, glancing around the side of the crates to check for any sign of the pilots. Then, flicking a fleeting look back at him, she moved out from their hiding spot, walking swiftly back to the humvee and disappearing inside.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he adjusted himself slightly, then followed.

When he slipped silently back into the humvee, she was already half-covered by her foil blanket and drinking out of one of the water bottles, and was very pointedly not looking anywhere in his direction. Knowing better than to push, he simply followed her cue, grabbing a bottle of his own and settling back into his seat, prepared to endure a very quiet half hour or so as she dissected what had just happened.

But for once, the quiet didn't last.

"This is a really bad idea, Weller."

_Fuck_.

Swiftly locking down his expression so that she wouldn't see the uncontrolled panic that was rapidly filling him, he swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice steady and measured as he gave his reply.

"How so?"

"I meant it when I said you didn't know me," she said tightly, still not looking at him. "The darkness you were so ashamed of, that's nothing compared to what I have inside me. The shit I've done... I've got a lot of blood on my hands, Weller."

"And you think I haven't?" he asked skeptically, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to find a way to get through to her, to make her see. "Briggs, we've both been in the military since we were in our teens, and I'd been with Orion practically a full year before you even signed on. My hands are no cleaner than yours."

She shook her head, sounding suddenly frustrated. "It's not the same."

"I don't see how."

Shoulders tensing, she asked carefully, "Have you ever tortured anyone?"

"No," he answered slowly, eyes still fixed on her. In his time with Orion, there'd been moments when it had almost been required, and he still didn't know what he would have done if it was.

Her voice turned flat, devoid of all emotion. "Well, I have."

He knew it was the truth— but he also knew she was deliberately trying to scare him away, and he wasn't going to let her.

"Under whose orders?"

She stiffened, and for the first time since they'd returned to the humvee, she looked over at him, her eyes finding his. It was the most fleeting of glances, barely more than half a second, but it was enough for him to know that he'd been right.

"Under whose orders?" he repeated, determined to get an answer.

"Shepherd's," she admitted finally, her voice hard, clearly seeing the point he was trying to make and not liking it.

He lifted his brows. "So you were a teenager."

"Yes—"

He wasn't done. "Following the orders of your only parental figure, a person who had absolute power and authority over you."

"_Yes_, but—"

"Who you then rebelled against and escaped from," he reminded her, undaunted by the fierce glare she was sending him. "And for pretty much that exact reason, right?"

He heard her let out a faint growl of frustration, her fists clenching in her lap. "You're not _listening_."

"Oh, I'm listening," he countered mildly, his gaze unwavering. "I'm just not hearing what you're saying the way you _want_ me to hear it."

For a moment she looked away, breathing deep, and when she spoke again the anger was gone, leaving behind something that sounded far too close to pain.

"I'm a grenade, Weller. Being close to me isn't... safe."

God, he wanted to hold her. He wanted to yank her into his arms and keep her there until she finally understood, finally saw what he saw when he looked at her.

But he couldn't. At least, not yet.

So he would have to settle for the next best thing.

"It's the safest place I've ever known," he told her quietly, the words gentle, honest. There were very few people in the world who he trusted completely, but she was one of them. "No one has ever protected me like you do, Briggs."

She'd closed her eyes as he spoke, but now they met his, sharp and intense, and in them he could see her desperation, her need for him to listen, to understand.

"Ever think I'm trying to protect you _now_?"

"I know you are," he murmured, holding her gaze steadily, letting her see how much he meant what he was saying. "And I know you'll keep trying, regardless of what happens between us. And that's what matters."

For another long moment, she returned his gaze, eyes searching his— then she finally looked away, clearing her throat.

"I don't know how to do this, Weller," she said quietly, and he could tell just how hard this was for her. "I don't think I can offer you the things that you want."

"I don't have much experience with this whole thing either, but I'm pretty sure that's how it's supposed to work," he replied evenly, hoping the words sounded as reassuring as he intended them to be. "You decide what you're ready for, and then I get to decide whether I can accept those terms or not."

There was a brief, heavy pause, her next question sounding like she'd had to force it past her lips.

"And if you can't?"

"I'll let you know if it ever happens," he answered honestly, seeing the doubt that crossed her face and immediately trying his best to ease it. "Seriously, Remi. As long as you don't ask me to share you, then I'm prepared to just see what happens. We'll just take it day by day, face things as they come. It worked in the desert, so why not now?"

He watched her process that for a moment, then suck in an unsteady breath, one hand lifting to her forehead as her eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck," she muttered, fingers pressing to the spot between her eyebrows, her expression faintly pained.

"Look, it's been a rough few days," he said quietly, wanting her to know he understood, and that he'd never judge her. "You don't have to decide anything right now. We've got time."

Because they did. Now that they'd finally made it out of the line of fire, they had time, and he was more than prepared to be patient, to wait for as long as it took for them to be on the same page. Just because he was ready for this— and had been ready for this for far longer than he should probably admit just now— didn't mean that she had to be, and he wouldn't push her into anything that she wasn't comfortable with.

What mattered was that she knew how he felt, and knew he would be right there with her when she decided to take that next step, whenever that might be.

Which, as it turned out, was a hell of a lot sooner than he'd been expecting.

"If we're anywhere even remotely public, you call me Briggs," she said suddenly, her voice stern, but with a faint undercurrent of bewilderment, as if she couldn't quite believe what was coming out of her mouth. "And no touching."

It took him a couple of seconds to catch on, and several more to get his euphoric grin under control, but once he did— well, more or less, at least— he cleared his throat slightly, giving a cool nod. "Got it."

Looking over at him, she met his gaze, then immediately grimaced. "Christ. No looking at me like that, either."

Schooling his features into his best poker face, he made his voice brisk and professional, knowing she could still hear the joy he was concealing beneath it. "Understood."

Shaking her head a little, she gave an affected sigh— but only a moment later she was shifting around in her seat, her legs returning to their previous position on his lap, as if knowing how badly he wanted that physical connection.

Or maybe because _she_ wanted it, too.

Pinning him with a look, she muttered darkly, "For the record, I still think this is a fucking terrible idea."

"That's my favorite kind," he replied immediately, his tone faintly teasing, his hand coming to rest once more on her ankle, giving it a tiny, reassuring squeeze.

She rolled her eyes. "Clearly."

Leaning his head against the headrest, he simply looked at her, for once not bothering to try to keep the dopey smile off of his face, fully aware that he was probably all but glowing with adoration right now.

Not that she seemed to mind, her eyes holding his in a way that made his breath hitch, a familiar swooping sensation appearing in his stomach.

Except the feeling just kept on going, and he realized that for once, she wasn't the only cause.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to listen for a change in the engine sound. "Do you think they've started the descent?"

She glanced at her watch. "Timing's right."

"Time to check in with Mayfair, then," he said, leaning down to reach for the sat phone in the bag. Automatically, she started to pull her legs from his lap, but he tightened his grip on her ankle, halting her.

"No, stay," he murmured, eyes lifting to hers once more just as his fingers found the phone. Straightening, he gave her a small smile. "You're keeping me warm."

She rolled her eyes at him again— he was predicting a lot of that in his future— but settled regardless, and he left his hand on her ankle, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin as he dialed Mayfair.

She was as brief and to the point as ever, and after barely half a minute he was hanging up again, looking over to meet Remi's questioning gaze.

"She's meeting us at the airfield," he explained, reaching out and letting the phone drop back into the bag. "We're to stay in here— she's going to have a couple of agents send the pilots away then drive us out."

Seeing the slight flattening of her lips, he paused, tilting his head. "What is it?"

She didn't speak for a moment, but when she did, her voice was grim. "Things are only going to get harder from here, Weller."

"What do you mean?" he asked warily, his chest suddenly a little tight, his mind immediately returning to their previous conversation.

"It's not going to be like out in the desert, where we could see our enemies coming," she warned, eyes serious. "Once we land, anyone we meet could be Orion."

Trying not to look too relieved, he nodded soberly. "I know."

"I trusted O'Callaghan and the doctor because I had no choice," she pressed, clearly needing him to understand. "But anyone else is a potential enemy until proven otherwise. Even Mayfair's people."

"I understand. And Mayfair will too."

For a moment she simply held his gaze, then drew a breath and nodded. "We should get ready."

Slipping her feet back to the floor, she turned away, immediately reaching for her boots and tugging them on. Already missing her warmth, he simply watched her for a moment, seeing the determined way she kept her focus on her task, as if she needed the distraction it provided. With a small sigh at how quickly their brief, carefree moment had ended, he made himself follow suit, pulling on his own boots and steadily lacing them up. With that done, they sat in silence, each staring in different directions, lost in their own thoughts.

Hers were probably about what they might be about to face down on the ground, what threats she might have to neutralize.

Whereas his were all just of her.

As the plane descended still lower, they hit a little turbulence, and he saw her flinch just slightly, her knuckles suddenly turning white where they gripped her knee.

Oh, no way.

"Briggs?" he asked, trying— and no doubt completely failing— to keep the disbelief out of his voice, his eyes wide.

"What?" she asked curtly, and he could hear the faint strain behind it, something more than just her usual irritation.

"Are you afraid of flying?"

She scowled. "I'm fine."

Holy crap, she _was_. He was more blown away by the thought than was probably warranted— he'd known since the desert that she wasn't as fearless as she seemed, their conversation of just minutes ago only further reinforcing that— but there was something so startlingly innocent about the idea of this incredible, indomitable warrior having such a normal, _human_ phobia.

Though given what had happened the last time they were in the air, it was hardly an unwarranted one.

"Is it because of the crash?" he asked, abruptly sobering. He'd assumed it was a long-term thing, but maybe what had happened with the helicopter had affected her more than he'd realized, the mere thought of it making his chest ache.

"No, Weller," she answered with a faint, resigned sigh, clearly picking up on his sudden change in mood. "You can relax, I'm not traumatized. It's always been like this with flying."

Letting out a relieved breath, he shot her a grateful look, and she gave him a tiny nod before looking away again, her arms crossing over her chest.

"But we've flown together _dozens_ of times," he said a moment later, his amazement returning now that he knew she wasn't suffering anything that she wasn't well and truly used to, his curiosity even stronger than before. "How did I never realize?"

"I don't exactly like to advertise my weaknesses," she muttered, clearly wishing he would just let it go already. "I trained myself to sleep through a flight whenever possible, and when it wasn't, I just made sure to to keep my distance from anyone who might look closely enough to notice."

Like him, who had spent five months fighting to keep his eyes off of her. Now that he thought about it, he realized they'd really never been anywhere near each other on any kind of aircraft until now, usually in their respective door-gunner positions on either side of the squad's helicopter or seated practically at opposite ends of any plane they found themselves on. He'd always suspected that it was deliberate, the way she'd always managed to be as far from him as was physically possible in whatever space they occupied, and had genuinely thought he'd known the reason why.

Happily, though, the last few days— hell, even just the last few hours— had definitely shown him just how wrong he'd been.

He was very aware that he was currently still staring at her, but he found he couldn't make himself stop, too caught up in the wonder of discovering yet another side of her, of understanding another piece of the puzzle. Before he could think too much about what he was doing— because if he did, he might talk himself out of it— he simply reached out a hand toward her, seeing her body stiffen in response.

The look she shot him was dangerous. "I'm not a fucking child, Weller. I don't need to be coddled."

"Trust me, I'm aware," he answered dryly, then nodded slightly at the hand that still hovered in the air between them. "Now just hold my damn hand, Briggs."

Eyes flicking from his face to his hand and back again, she said nothing, her mouth twisting in a small scowl— but only a couple of moments later, she grudgingly reached out, her fingers closing tightly around his.

And only when they were securely on solid ground did she let go.

#########

She was so damn sick of waiting.

Waiting for enemies to find her in the desert. Waiting for allies to provide her a way out.

Waiting for the bullet that was destined to bury itself in her brain.

Or Weller's.

Because that's what she was really waiting for, wasn't it? The chance to end Orion before they could end him.

And the first step to doing that was getting off this damn plane.

She didn't need to look at her watch to know how many minutes had passed since they'd landed, since they'd started to taxi to whatever hangar they were bound for. She knew the exact number, not that that prevented it from feeling fifty times longer.

Weller had clearly noticed her impatience; once or twice he'd tried to make conversation, to distract her, but he'd given up quickly enough when he'd realized he wasn't going to get anywhere. Now he just watched her with those eyes that saw too deep for comfort, so she kept hers fixed elsewhere, ignoring the tiny part of her that itched to reach out and take his hand again, to let his touch silence the thoughts that raced through her head.

But he'd already witnessed more vulnerability from her during this flight— hell, during the last hour— than she'd shown to just about anyone in her entire life, and she couldn't really deal with adding even more to that right now.

Honestly, she couldn't really deal with anything in regards to him right now, or to what they now where.

Because suddenly, they'd become _something_.

Fuck.

She hadn't been lying when she'd said it was a terrible idea— her final, desperate attempt to get him to reconsider, to save himself while he still could, though his stupid, stubborn heart had made it a losing battle from the start. Despite what he clearly thought, it _was_ a bad idea— fuck, probably the worst one either of them had ever had— and she was already bracing herself for the moment when it all went to hell, crashing and burning so badly that it would make what had happened to the helicopter look like nothing.

Whatever this was between them, it could destroy them both more easily than Orion ever could.

And yet she still fucking _wanted_ it.

God, she must be losing her mind, the last few days somehow robbing her of all sense and reason, the logic she'd relied on all her life suddenly nowhere to be found.

Instead, somewhere deep inside of her was a tiny voice that just wouldn't shut up— a voice that sounded suspiciously like _him_— and it reminded her that everything else they'd faced together, they'd survived, even against huge odds.

So maybe— just _maybe_— they could even survive this, too.

Drawing in a slow breath, she tried to pull her focus back to the present— to what would be awaiting them when they finally made it off this plane, which was what she _should_ be thinking about, not the man beside her or the little makeout session they'd shared.

Though fucking hell, who knew that someone who was such a boyscout in every other way could ever kiss like _that_.

If he could get her that worked up without even getting under her clothes, then _fuck_, she had some things to look forward to in the future.

The very _near_ future, if she had anything to do with it.

Suddenly feeling a little too warm, she shoved the foil blanket off of her lap, and from the corner of her eye she could see the curious look he sent her, no doubt dying to ask what was going on in her head. She refused to look at him, though, instead determined to completely ignore his existence, just as she'd done for the majority of the five months that they'd known each other.

Evidently she was out of practice, though, because she cracked within minutes, their eyes meeting and holding as the plane finally slowed to a stop, the engines powering down, the ensuing silence loud in her ears.

"Hey, uh," he began, and there was something in his tone that made her instantly tense up, wishing for the engines to come back to life, to drown out whatever it was that he was about to say. But it was too much to hope for, apparently, and a second later he was speaking again, his voice low and far too gentle. "While we've still got a minute, I uh, I just wanted to say that if Orion does catch up with me sometime, I'm really glad I got to make the trip home with you, and I don't want you to blame yourself for anything that happens. You've saved my life many times over already, so..."

"So don't let Orion waste all my fucking effort, then," she snapped, abruptly furious with him, with Orion, with _everything_. Feeling the sudden burn in her throat and behind her eyes, she clenched her jaw and turned away, unable to deal with him and his fucking martyr bullshit right now.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a quiet mix of apology and assurance. "I won't. I promise I'm going to be fighting my ass off to stay alive, no matter what's ahead of us. I just needed to make sure it was said."

Swallowing against the stupid lump in her throat, she growled back, "Are you done?"

She heard the tiny huff he let out, his words carrying a subtle tenderness. "Yeah, I'm done."

"Then how about we focus on—" she began, but was immediately cut off by the unmistakable sound of the cargo bay door opening, the entire plane shuddering slightly as the ramp hit the ground. Instantly, they both fell silent, ears straining to listen for any sounds of approach.

After another long, anxious minute, they heard it.

Footsteps.

At least two people, their tread lighter and more deliberate than the clomp of military boots.

Exchanging a glance, they both tensed, waiting, ready. The footsteps halted by the humvee, followed by a second of silence, neither of them daring to breathe.

Then the driver's door cracked open.

"Agents Reade and Zapata," spoke a smooth male voice, its owner remaining both out of sight and out of striking reach. "Mayfair sent us. Sit tight, we'll have the humvee free in a second."

The door closed again, and almost immediately they heard the sound of the fastenings being undone, the straps pulled free. A moment later the coverings over the front two windows and windshield disappeared, the fluorescent cargo bay lights flooding the vehicle and making them blink.

It was only a matter of seconds before the driver's door cracked open again, the same voice speaking up.

"Heads up. We're coming in."

In a synchronized motion, both the driver and passenger side doors opened, and Remi kept her hand close to her sharpest knife as two people slid smoothly into the seats and closed their doors with simultaneous clicks.

In the driver's seat was the man who had spoken; tall and crisply dressed, African-American, his build lean and athletic. Even without seeing the ease with which he interacted with the humvee's controls, she would have instantly marked him as former military.

Which made him even more of a threat.

As the engine roared to life, she cut her eyes to the female agent who sat in front of her— whom she already knew Weller would have assessed as closely as she had the driver— but could discern nothing more than a petite build, a thick head of shiny dark hair, and an approximate height of a couple inches less than her own.

And then, as if sensing her gaze, the woman spoke.

"I'm Zapata. That's Reade," she said briskly, her voice all business. "We work directly under Mayfair at the NYO. I'm turning around now."

As Agent Reade slowly began to reverse the humvee out of the cargo bay, Agent Zapata twisted in her seat, leaning around the headrest to be able to meet her eyes, her brows lifting slightly.

'I'm guessing you're Briggs?"

Holding her gaze, Remi gave a curt nod.

"Figured as much," Zapata replied, her manner calm and confident, free of the suspicion that was coiled in those behind her. "I'm gonna hand you a gun now, okay?"

Instantly, she felt Weller go tense beside her, instinctively knowing that he'd taken his eyes from Reade to watch Zapata draw out the weapon. Lifting her hand just a little off of her knee, she held it there for a moment, and he immediately obeyed, turning his attention back to the man in front of him as he steadily guided the humvee away from the plane. Reaching out with the same hand, Remi warily accepted the gun that Zapata held out grip-first, seeing her eyes flick quickly from one of them to the other, dark and perceptive, having clearly picked up on their silent exchange.

Leaving it to Weller to watch both of their companions, Remi swiftly inspected the weapon and ammo with a practiced efficiency, finding nothing amiss. Looking up, she found Zapata still watching her, her interest clear.

"Why?" she asked, voice flat, giving nothing away.

Zapata shrugged. "Mayfair told me to."

Eyes narrowing, Remi searched her expression. "Is she expecting trouble?"

'Nope," she replied, and Remi could hear no trace of deceit in her answer. "I think she just thought you'd be more comfortable if you were armed.'

From the corner of her eye, she saw Weller shoot her a glance, knowing full well he was thinking about the multiple knives currently hidden under her fatigues, and how efficiently she could have used them.

"It's a nice gesture," he said mildly, as if replying to her thoughts.

"And so you're the famous Weller," Zapata acknowledged, taking him in with the same steady, measuring gaze she'd directed at Remi. "We've heard a lot about you, though we never knew your name until your call to Mayfair a couple days ago. Gotta say, rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated."

"Not that anyone knows that yet," Reade chimed in suddenly, his eyes never leaving the tarmac. "As far as the world is concerned, you both died in the accident with the rest of your squadron. Now that you're back home and have the protection of the FBI, though, that narrative can be changed."

She heard Weller shift slightly at that, already knowing the subject of his thoughts before he voiced it. "My sister?"

"She's the only one who knows. Mayfair flew us out to inform her ourselves," Reade answered, then paused, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. "She's strong, your sister. She and her son are back in your hometown under the guise of preparing for your funeral, but the moment Mayfair gives the all clear they'll both be flown to New York."

"Thank you," Weller murmured, and she could hear the relief in it, finding a tiny part of herself relaxing as well.

"Least we could do after all you've given us on Orion," Reade replied simply, and she saw Zapata give a nod of agreement. She may be miles from even considering the thought of trusting these two, but their respect for Weller seemed genuine, and that was the first point in their favor.

"Do you guys have any idea yet who might be pulling the strings?" Weller asked, voicing the question she'd been wondering herself, and she listened intently.

Her hunt would be so much quicker and easier with a name.

Zapata and Reade exchanged a look, and this time it was Zapata who spoke. "Not yet. But we're getting closer."

Weller seemed to accept that answer, but there was something in the way it had been given that made Remi think they weren't sharing the whole story.

She didn't get the chance to do any subtle digging, though, because only a moment later the humvee began to slow, then finally rolled to a stop.

"Alright, here we go," Reade said, parking the vehicle and turning to look at them for the first time. "Mayfair has your ride waiting."

Sharing a look with Weller, she gave the shadow of a nod, then tightened her grip on the gun and opened the door, stepping out onto a near-deserted stretch of tarmac only faintly lit by the distant lights of the base's various hangars and personnel buildings.

Several yards from her stood a middle-aged woman who barely cleared five feet tall, yet wore an air of authority like it was kevlar.

And behind her was a motherfucking helicopter.

"You've got to be shitting me," Weller said quietly at her shoulder, having rounded the humvee while she was scanning their surroundings.

She couldn't help but agree.

The woman— Mayfair— stepped forward.

"Good to see you both safely Stateside," she said in a steady New Yorker accent, her tone a practiced mix of official and amiable. "I apologize for the chopper, but there was no other choice. The priority is getting you somewhere secure, and this is the fastest way."

Seeing the look they exchanged, she spoke again.

"However, you've been through a lot, so I won't force you. Zapata and Reade will be making the drive back, and you can join them if you choose. They know the risk."

Glancing at the two agents, who now stood quietly together by a nearby black sedan— looking almost like a distorted mirror image of she and Weller— Remi shook her head, her choice already made. Knowing Weller would be right behind her, she crossed the distance to Mayfair, almost certain she saw a trace of approval in the woman's dark eyes as she silently stepped aside and let them climb up into the chopper's rear seats.

"Gotta get back on the horse, right?" Weller muttered as he buckled himself in beside her, and she met his eyes for an all-too-brief moment before they both turned and reached for a headset, pulled them on. In the passenger seat in front of them, Mayfair did the same, then twisted around to look at them as she spoke.

"The flight won't be much more than 20 minutes," she assured them as the engines abruptly roared to life, the familiar vibration making Remi clench her teeth together, fighting a faint wave of nausea. "I know it's been a long road, but your journey is almost over."

She didn't wait for an answer; didn't seem to expect one, instead simply turned back around and signaled to the pilot, and suddenly there was a slight lurch as the chopper lifted off the ground and immediately began gaining height.

Fingers clenched and muscles tense, Remi stared straight ahead, refusing to let the fear get to her. A moment later, she felt a slight pressure against the side of her knee, and glanced down to see Weller's leg resting lightly against hers, a subtle reassurance. Even just a few days ago, she would have instinctively drawn away from the contact, but instead she shifted her foot just a little, leaning into it, taking the comfort only he could provide.

It was a smaller connection than either of them wanted, but for now it was enough, and she could already feel them both breathing a little easier.

After a few more minutes— time that was no doubt specifically intended to give them a chance to shake the memory of their last helicopter ride— Mayfair spoke up, her voice crackling through their headsets.

"So, there'll be a full briefing this afternoon," she explained, not bothering to turn to look back at them. "But first you'll have some time to get settled and catch up on sleep. I've lined up one of our better safehouses for the two of you— it should only be for a few days while I get my ducks in a row with Quantico, just a precaution to keep you off of Orion's radar until you have the full force of the FBI behind you. After that, you'll be free to return to the world of the living, but for now you have to stay ghosts, understood?"

She'd been able to feel Weller's eyes practically burning into her skin from the moment Mayfair had uttered the word 'safehouse', and now she found she couldn't keep herself from glancing over at him, seeing him quirk a devilish eyebrow, his gaze somehow both amused and heated at the same time. Shooting him a warning look, she turned away, instead fixing her eyes on the back of Mayfair's head.

"Understood," she answered evenly, ignoring the sudden fluttering sensation that had taken up residence somewhere low in her stomach. A second later, Weller echoed her, his voice as steady as hers had been, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Good," Mayfair said approvingly, nothing in her tone indicating she had any idea of the silent exchange happening directly behind her. "So, you two think you can handle being stuck together for a few more days?"

This time, when her eyes met his, she didn't look away, didn't try to hide. Seeing the spark of mischief in his gaze soften into tenderness, Remi pressed her knee a little closer against his, answering for the both of them.

"We'll survive."

#########

* * *

_Oh man. Well, here we are. _

_God, there's so much in this I'm nervous about, but I mean at least they're all nice things? Like hey, we got emotional conversations, we got kissing, we got our babies together, got to see the team (even if only briefly), got to find out that these two smitten idiots are literally on their way to their own private love shack_— _ ahem, safehouse_— _ right at this very moment..._

_Ngl, I'm somewhat terrified that I shot myself in the foot by making last chapter as angsty as it was, only for things to change so quickly in this chapter. But the entire point of last chapter was to make Remi realise how much she fucking hated trying to keep her distance from Weller, and the point of this one was to make her realise that her desire to be with him outweighs her fear. And I know they communicated a hell of a lot more in this than they usually do, but fingers crossed it felt fitting for the situation and not weird or OOC... although lbr this is an AU, so I am therefore the leading expert on these two, and I say just roll with it haha._

_Also, not sure what the response to my little bit of Weller backstory will be, but I'll just say that as someone who works closely with people struggling with trauma and acute mental health crises, I believe that even canon Kurt Weller has 100% had suicidal periods in the past. But if you disagree that's totally cool, because again this is an AU and that's what headcanons are for._

_Okay lastly... given that this is our final chapter, I would seriously love to hear from all of you, whether you've been reviewing the whole way along or have only left one or two (or none! No judgement!). I promise I will be delighted by any and all comments. And jsyk, I do have some (*cough* potentially smutty *cough*) sequel ideas haha, so if you'd be interested in seeing what happens next for these two, this is the perfect time to reach out and say so! _

_Anywho, that's enough from me. Thank you for an awesome ride, guys._

_._

_"Wherever you go, I'm your shadow; desert to ice floe, I will follow."_

_-Shadow, by Birdy_


End file.
